Who Needs Christine?
by Honey Jenkins
Summary: Deep underground a scene of tragedy is about to unfold. Jealousy and obsession wreak destruction on the lives of a phantom, vicomte, and singer, and their rescue will not come from Christine's choice. May contain Mary-Sues. Riddled with OCs. ON HIATUS!
1. Chapter 1

**To my dear readers:**

I crave your indulgence in sifting through the beginning of this rather stale and crusty story. My writing style has changed quite a bit over the last four years (have we really been writing this for that long? Thank goodness it's only been on this site for two!) and, hopefully, has improved quite a bit, too. As we move forward with the story, I intend to go back and edit the older bits (as I desperately wish my 15 year old self had had a little bit more sense of character development. Or character in general.) and hopefully bring them up to scratch. It was not my intention to add another Mary-Sue fic to this site, and I firmly intend to uphold that promise by editing the crap out of what had once been the best thing I had ever written.

I remain your obedient (or... like... not) author,

Kit.

**To my dear readers:**

What she said.

~Beth

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Katherine eased the small boat under the grate and motioned her friend forward. Belle followed her under the iron bars, carefully avoiding their sharp ends, and the two resurfaced just past the barrier.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Belle whispered anxiously.

"Yes, of course it is," Katherine replied. "I haven't been sneaking around down here during performances for nothing. The water gets pretty deep up ahead, so be careful."

Belle shivered and took a shaky step forward. She wasn't the best swimmer and the green colored water didn't look very inviting. Even in the dim light of the cavern, something horrible and stringy could be seen floating in it, just waiting for a chance to wrap its slimy form around an unwanted guest.

That was absurd, Belle told herself. The algae couldn't be on his side, too. Although rumor had it, the Phantom could make strange things happen with seemingly harmless objects…

"Belle, don't be frightened. You still like the vicomte, don't you?"

Belle nodded with feeling and thought of all the money she'd scrimped and saved to attend the operas ever since the Vicomte de Chagny became patron of the Populaire, only to find out that he was secretly engaged to Christine Daae. She swallowed her fears, taking special care to ignore the slimy water plants, and went waist deep into the discolored liquid.

"What I don't understand is how you went exploring in the Phantom's lair without getting caught," Belle remarked, flicking an unidentifiable bug off her arm.

"Oh, it's very simple," Katherine shrugged. "Like I said I only come during performances and I try not to touch anything. So even if Erik _was_ looking for evidence of a girl digging around his lair, (which is probably the furthest thing from his mind,) there wouldn't be any reason for him to get suspicious."

Katherine could recollect with perfect clarity the historic day she decided to follow the sewer caverns under the opera house and discovered on her own who the real "ghost" was. Not a Phantom after all, but a man. A man of flesh and blood. What ghost ever slept in a bed and needed the light from a hundred or more candles to see by? A spirit couldn't be moved to write the music Katherine had heard that night from _Don Juan_, either. Erik didn't float through the walls and cast spells; he merely used a number of trap doors and magician's tricks to frighten his less cunning enemies. That was the genius of it all. That's what had everyone else scared out of their wits.

Belle kept her hands on the boat and continued down the dark tunnel. Katherine cocked her head as the sound of desperate singing echoed through the opera basement. There were three distinct voices; two male and one female, all arguing and trying to sing over one another, the noisy pleas and angry threats somehow mingling into a harmony. As the two girls came out of the tunnel's opening, a strange scene came into view.

A young man was tied to the portcullis with thick ropes wound painfully tight around his chest, arms, and wrists. His damp hair fell into wet, brown strands around his face, and one of the ropes wound about his arm was taut enough to reopen an old wound, causing his white shirt to be stained with crimson. A taller man with thin patches of hair and a strange deformity on the right side of his face held tightly to the end of a rope that was tied around the first man's neck. Up on firm ground, a young girl stood in an ivory wedding gown, pleading with the man holding the rope; pleading with Erik. No one noticed the two girls with the boat near the dripping cavern that led to the exit.

"_Angel of music, you deceived me_. I gave you my mind blindly." The girl cried piteously, unable to comprehend the inner workings of a man who would lie and kill for her without mercy. She was still in partial shock from the gruesome choice she was being forced to make. The words, "Choose me, or choose death," seemed to glare at her through the tortured eyes of the Phantom.

"You try my patience. Make your choice," Erik viciously yanked the rope and Belle caught her breath as Raoul choked and gasped for air.

Katherine quickly moved forward, positioning herself directly in front of Erik, "And what exactly," she exclaimed fiercely, one hand poised delicately on her hip as if reprimanding a small child. "Do you hope to accomplish?"

Erik loosened his hold on the rope slightly, a bewildered expression on his face. Raoul let out a relieved gasp as air flooded back into his lungs. Belle quietly sloshed her way through the water over to the vicomte. She looked at him with soft eyes, smiling slightly. Raoul thought he recognized her from somewhere, but with his life still in danger, he couldn't be bothered to think anymore on the subject.

The young girl's head was tilted slightly to the side, giving her the distinct look of a confused puppy, her wide chocolate eyes scanning the scene before her. Belle knew her to be Christine Daae; the girl who started this whole mess. Away from the lights and splendor of the stage she looked quite lost and out of place.

"You dare..." Erik whispered, rage bleeding into his smooth voice. Erik's eyes were focused on Katherine, growing colder and harder than they were seconds before.

"Let the man down." Katherine said.

"And why," Erik snarled. "Would I do that?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

Silence followed.

"No."

Katherine slid her hand over Erik's clenched fist that held the rope and began to pull and pry at his fingers. Erik jumped at her touch, letting the rope slip from his grasp. Belle slid the noose over Raoul's head and let it fall into the water.

Erik stared, unbelievingly, at the pale hand that lay against his own. Why didn't she let go?

"Killing won't solve anything." Katherine said, removing her hand suddenly as if she had forgotten it was still resting on his. "Has it _ever_ solved anything? Done any good for you?"

Erik opened his mouth as if to say something, but the echoing voices of the mob cut him off.

"_Revenge for Piangi, revenge for Bouquet!_" They sang.

Erik promptly shut his mouth again. Seconds passed slowly.

"It is too late for me now..." He whispered sadly, shifting his gaze downward.

Raoul looked at his saviors with interest, especially the familiar woman who was just inches away from him, who was watching the scene between Erik and Katherine with a mixture of fear and mild interest. The moment she sensed that Erik was no longer a threat to either the vicomte or Katherine, or at least distracted enough for her to get away with it, Belle loosened the knotted ropes around Raoul's chest and arms, flinging them into the water with a sign of disgust. The vicomte relaxed his sore muscles and went limp at his sudden release.

"Raoul!" Christine moved forward a step to assist, but Belle had already given him the support he needed to steady himself. Raoul hoarsely whispered an apology as he used Belle's slender shoulder to help himself stand.

"Don't apologize," she answered him softly, "I'm sure anyone recovering from near strangulation would be rather unsteady. Come with me; there's a boat we can take back."

Another man suddenly appeared from the same tunnel Katherine and Belle had come from. He looked very much like an older copy of Raoul, only his forehead was more clearly defined, and a distinguishing mustache curled above his lips. He too had come to save the vicomte, but the man named Philippe stopped in his tracks when he saw the young girl letting his brother lean on her.

"Raoul, thank heavens you're alive! I came looking- Great Berlioz, man! What's happened to you?"

"Don't make him speak now," Belle chided. "Let him catch his breath. Christine... help Christine, she's going to faint."

Belle was right. Once the rush of adrenaline had passed, Christine's shaken nerves finally gave way and her eyes grew hazy and even more distant before she finally collapsed. Philippe caught Christine just in time to prevent her elfin head from hitting the rocky ground. Erik moved to help her, but Katherine held him back.

"Let her go," she urged him softly, meaning the words in so many more ways than seemed possible. "It's too much for her. Let her awake in her own bed, leaving this all behind as a bad dream."

Erik gazed questioningly into Katherine's dark eyes with mounting confusion. Why did it matter to her? Why did she care? And where were all these people coming from?

Philippe lifted an unconscious Christine to the waiting gondola and pushed off towards the angry voices who still screamed for Erik's life. He looked back only once to reassure himself that Erik wouldn't pursue them and make Philippe his next lasso victim. He didn't even take the time to cast a final glance at his brother to confirm he was going to be safe.

Belle helped Raoul into the boat and chose a different route of escape. She wouldn't seek safety and sympathy from the same maddened mob that hunted their fellow man down for nothing more than physical imperfection. More stories of kidnap and torture would only feed the mob's senseless fury, and that was not Belle's intention in coming here tonight.

Panting heavily in the swaying craft, Raoul kept his gaze on the disappearing form of Christine until the boat passed through the entrance of the cavern and she was out of sight at last. He hoped Philippe would have the decency to find her a respectable place to stay; perhaps with Mme. Giry, or some friendly home inhabited by other women. When his view was impeded by solid rock, he turned his attentions to Belle, trying to remember where he'd seen her from while ignoring the growing pain in his arm. His guide stayed in the water, pushing the boat back through the murky pool. She stopped just before the grate and put a hand on the wall beside it.

"Katherine said there should be a hidden lever of some sort to open this. It may be concealed behind a loose rock." Belle searched diligently for such a stone, but to no avail. Frustrated, and somewhat fearful, she kicked her foot under the water and struck against something hard jutting out from the floor. Belle looked down, but nothing was visible in the repugnant stuff. She inhaled deeply and plunged under the water. Belle opened her eyes and felt them sting from the pollution. She quickly shut them again and used her hands to feel for the metal switch. When she found it, she pulled hard to release the mechanism and came back up coughing to maneuver the boat past the opening grate. She started and jumped quickly out of the way as the grate suddenly closed itself shut again.

Still coughing from the water she'd swallowed, Belle shoved the boat sideways to keep it stationary just outside the entrance to a sewer pipe. She took a parcel from the bank and climbed into the boat, across from the wounded man.

"We should stay here until it's dark enough to walk down the street unnoticed," she said with a stray cough, "I don't want to attract any unwanted attention."

The girl leaned forward and slowly ran her hand over the top of Raoul's sleeve. She tore it at the shoulder, taking the time to inspect the gash there. Without touching the wound, she traced its length with two of her fingers, and frowning asked, "That's from him too, isn't it?"

He nodded in affirmation, and she lowered her eyes to search the parcel for what items she needed. The arm was cleaned and wrapped with the greatest of care and a fervent hope that this time it would be allowed to heal without hindrance. Belle was only sorry she had nothing for his chaffed wrists.

"Thank you."

Belle nodded and shivered violently in the evening chill. She and the vicomte had both been completely soaked, and the cold, night air seemed to seep through to the bone. She pulled two heavy cloaks out of the sack and handed one to Raoul as she struggled to find the hood of hers in the mass of fabric. Raoul took the cloak with his good hand and put it around Belle's shoulders. She smiled in gratitude as best she could with her teeth chattering. Raoul looked at her closely, his hand still on her shoulder.

"I know you. I've just remembered where I've seen you before," he said. "In the street you lost a hairpin and I helped you find it."

Belle felt her cheeks flush despite the cold. She'd dropped the hairpin on purpose. Finally she had tired of passing his home and his person on the way to make deliveries without an excuse to address him. "I'm always losing things. I can be rather clumsy."

Raoul smiled back and pulled the cloak tighter around himself. The dampness was unbearable.

"I believe if we kept together, staying warm wouldn't be so difficult."

A look of incredulity crept over Belle's face. It couldn't be possible that the Vicomte de Chagny was asking her to huddle beside him. Perhaps it was just a hallucination. She _was_ going numb in the head.

"Come, we'll both freeze to death otherwise."

She made her way to his right side and stiffly leaned against him as he brought his arm around her shoulder. By doubling their cloaks, the warmth around them was significantly increased, and their soggy condition became a little more than tolerable. In time, when her neck and shoulders began to ache from the stiffness, Belle allowed herself to relax, and her head gradually slipped downward to rest on his shoulder.

A strand of her hair brushed against his cheek, and again, Raoul thought of his fiancée. With any luck, Christine would be safely on her way to the heartening sight of a blazing fire and a warm bed. She and Raoul both had survived this ordeal and they would live to see another morning. No matter if it was gray and dismal as an aged dog. Only minutes ago, he had expected to die in a dark, forgotten place under the earth, or be forced to watch his whole life walk away with another man. But the Phantom had not anticipated on these two girls giving them a third option of escape.

"You saved my life and Christine's," he was able to say, slowly regaining the power of speech. "You and your friend. Was it your idea to come here or hers?"

"It was a joint decision." Belle said vapidly. She felt a little sleepy in her current position.

"Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

A million thoughts—most of them shameful—flashed through Belle's mind, but she repressed them with some difficulty and timidly lifted her eyes to meet Raoul's, "Can you teach me to play the piano?"

A look of surprise passed over Raoul's face before he replied, "You can't play?"

Belle shook her head and let it drop again, "Piano lessons aren't exactly a priority in my family."

The vicomte leaned back in the boat and savored a gust of clean air as it made its way into his pained lungs. It made him even colder, but it was better than being cut off from it completely.

"You ask a very easy thing in return for your invaluable help. Consider it done, mademoiselle..."

"Belle. My name is Belle."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Katherine watched Belle and Raoul float away on the boat with a slight smile playing on her lips. Her friend had fancied the Vicomte for years. Erik, on the other hand, was still watching the place where Philippe and Christine disappeared with a deeply mournful look. It seemed as if he was going to go after them. Katherine noticed this, and put her hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner.

"If you love her, you'll let her go." she said. "She'll be happier if she can forget. This can't have been a pleasant experience for her."

Erik sighed.

"Come on, you'll catch your death standing out in this freezing water." Katherine ushered Erik back towards the shore. "And the mob is getting close. They'll be here soon. Is there somewhere you can go? Some sort of hiding place?"

"I'd just as rather they catch me." Erik muttered, letting himself be led back to land.

"They'll kill you!" Katherine exclaimed.

"Death would be a welcome friend after the life I've led."

"So you'd just give up? After everything, you'd just stand there and wait for--"

"And why not?" Erik interrupted. "There's nothing left for me. My only chance at happiness was just carried out of here in the arms of my enemy's brother!"

"All wounds heal in time." Katherine said.

"Time heals nothing." Erik spat, grabbing a candlestick. "Time _fixes_ nothing. Time is just an illusion set forth to measure the passage of eternity." He shattered a mirror to his left, revealing a passage. He dropped the candlestick and stepped through, pulling a curtain down behind him.

The splashing of water could be heard, and the drone of voices was getting louder. Katherine made a spur of the moment decision and rushed through the curtain and into the passage after Erik. She caught up with him in several long strides.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, realizing that he was not alone.

"It was either this or have to explain to about fifty people set to kill what I was doing down there. Besides, I don't want you doing anything...stupid." she whispered.

"And what concern is it to you?"

"You can do more for the world if you're alive."

"The world won't have me." Erik growled. "That was made painfully obvious long ago."

"So just because people are too shallow to see the man on the inside instead of the man on the outside, you're going to give up?"

"Who could stand me? Who could bear to look upon me and not retreat with disgust?"

"Apparently I can."

Erik's hand rose to the right side of his face. He'd forgotten that his mask was gone. He'd been so caught up in his own emotions since Christine departed that he'd absolutely forgotten. Who was this girl, he wondered, who could look upon him, not with fear or pity, but genuine concern? He was at a loss for words. Instead, he turned and continued his trek down the passage, wondering if this strange girl would follow. To his surprise, she did. He wondered how far she would go before she realized she was following a monster.

At last Katherine and Erik reached the end of the passage. They were in a small, circular room furnished with only an old, dilapidated couch and a wooden crate full of what looked to be clothes. There were two small openings on the left and the right of the room that Katherine could only assume led to some sort of bathroom and a kitchen, or food storage.

Erik turned to Katherine again. "You should go back." he said. "The mob should be gone by now. Take the passage behind the grate that the Vicomte was tied to. There's a lever behind the rock that's next to the---"

"Fourth mirror on the left... I know. But I'm not going until I'm sure that you're alright."  
Erik looked bewildered, confused, and slightly angry all at the same time. Katherine's eyes widened in shock at what she'd just revealed.

Most of the time Belle spent in the boat was passed in an awkward silence. She was still coming to terms with the fact that she was sharing an incredibly small space with the Vicomte de Chagny. As for Raoul, he was just satisfied to be breathing at the moment. Only a few words were spoken between them, mostly pertaining to the obvious perception that it was not quite safe to leave the water craft yet. That is, until Belle's hand unintentionally managed to find one of Raoul's.

"Mademoiselle!"

"Please, I told you to call me Belle."

"I'll be forced to call you _congelé_ if you don't do something about your hands."

"My hands?"

Belle, in her poor state of mind had thought nothing of her freezing fingers as she was too intent on considering the proper thing to say to a fatigued vicomte. She made a gap in the cloak and stared mournfully at her hands, expecting some sort of terrible disease to be spreading through her body by them.

"Yes, they are icy to the touch," Raoul said with some concern. "Would you permit me to warm them for you?"

Belle had neither the courage, nor the lack of tact to inform him that it was all she ever dreamed of, so the girl merely nodded her head in consent.

Both their hands had been tucked inside the folds of the cloak, but Belle's seemed often to be immune to heat. Now Raoul took them up and gently but rapidly he rubbed them together until the rushing blood brought warmth back into her cold fingers. Soon, they began to tingle painfully, and with a sudden surge of guilt, Belle reminded herself that it was only an act of gentlemanly consideration and he meant nothing by it. Raoul and Christine had a love between them; a love that wasn't nothing. She also realized that the action must have hurt Raoul's arm a great deal.

"Oh no, stop! You'll make your arm worse," Belle pulled away and squeezed her hands together in an attempt to keep them from growing cold again.

"I was using my wrists more than anything else," Raoul said defensively.

Nevertheless, Belle kept her hands meekly folded in her lap from then on.

It was still dark when Belle decided at last that it was safe to leave the boat. There was some concern over finding the means to get home as Raoul's carriage would certainly be watched, but he managed to secure passage for them on a late night coach that was free of other passengers. Raoul was recognizable to the driver, even in his sodden clothing and untidy hair, and a promise of future payment was all it took to escort Belle and the Vicomte home. Raoul asked for Belle's address in order to direct the driver there, but she refused to divulge that information.

"Just have him drive to your house; mine isn't far from there."

When the coach came to a stop in front of the vicomte's abode, Raoul expected the young girl to remain in her seat and order the driver on to her own, but Belle was out of the coach in three quick steps before he had the chance to help her out. In answer to Raoul's questioning look, Belle declared that she would walk.

"Shall I come by your house tomorrow to fetch you for your lesson?" Raoul inquired.

Belle looked up with a start of surprise, "No! Don't come to the house. I... I can walk perfectly well, and it's no great distance. Besides, we don't have to start so soon. Your arm needs time to mend and so do your lungs."

She began to walk away slowly, and Raoul called after her, "Wait, how will I let you know when I'm well?"

Belle contemplated for a moment. "You may send me a message by the fan maker who stands at the corner. Tell him it's for 'Belle' and he'll be sure to get it to me one way or another." She took a step towards the street, then stopped, turned, and bid Raoul a hushed, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, and thank you."

Raoul watched her start down the lamp lighted street and put a hand on his door latch. He wondered why Belle was so adamant about him staying away from her home. What was she hiding? Raoul also thought briefly of calling on Philippe to inquire after Christine's condition, but if he didn't start after Belle at once, he might lose her and all chances of solving the mystery. His throbbing head and aching muscles urged him to forget everything, walk straight through his door and crawl into bed; but curiosity got the better of him.

Raoul followed after Belle quietly, surprised at how easy it was to remain unnoticed. Of course, she wouldn't expect the injured vicomte to follow her home in this manner and therefore didn't feel the need to glance behind her shoulder every so often. Raoul reproached himself during the entire walk for being so impudent, but he never once turned back or deviated from his course.

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Explain." Erik growled.

Katherine gulped. "I... you see it's that I..."

"Go on."

Katherine took a deep breath. "Several months ago, I caught wind of some sort of ghost haunting the opera Populaire. I was... intrigued. The next chance I got, I sped off to investigate, to figure out what was going on.

"I managed to slip backstage without being seen and heard a woman talking to someone, saying that someone called Erik was showing a bit too much interest in Christine Daae, and that she was afraid he would soon do something erratic like drag her down to his home in the cellars. I wasn't too sure to make of this information. The door began to open and a pretty blonde girl ran out, dressed as one of the dancers in Hannibal.

"I sped off in the direction I thought would lead me to the basements. I made it to the cellars without incident, but I was at a loss to figure out which way to go. I was close to giving up and heading back when I almost ran into someone. I pressed myself back against the wall and narrowly avoided collision. I assume, now at least, that it was you.

"I took off in the opposite direction, and after maybe twenty minutes of searching I came across a lake and a small boat. I climbed in the boat and pushed off with the pole. I almost fell over a few times, but I managed to gain balance again before that happened.

"When I made it to the other side of the lake, I was awed at the sight before me. I saw drawings of trapdoors and inventions scattered all over a desk, exquisite drawings of Christine Daae. I walked around, forming conclusions in my head. There was no opera ghost. There was a man, a genius, who used his inventions to frighten.

"I left the place with a strange mixture of awe and curiosity. Why, I wondered, would someone with such a brilliant mind hide himself?

"I came back several times, always during a performance, to investigate more. Again I overheard the woman speaking to someone, and caught whispers of 'horrid deformity.' and 'grotesquely disfigured.' During my explorations, I found secret levers, and intricate machines that I could not figure out the purpose for. I saw piles of sheet music, the names of which I've never heard, all hand written. I longed to meet the man behind the machines and behind the music, but I never got up the courage to stay long enough.

"Finally, tonight, my friend and I, after anxiously scraping and saving up enough money, came to see your opera. When you disappeared down the trap-door with Christine, and Raoul ran off to follow you, we made the collective decision to follow you down." Katherine finished, taking another deep breath. She'd left out how moving she'd found his opera, how deeply it affected her.

Erik sat studying the girl before him. A guilty look had crept across her features as she told the story. He didn't know what to say. He was torn between being completely angry, and impressed that she'd managed to pull it off without his knowing it.

"How long do you plan on staying here?" was all he said.

If Katherine was shocked by the sudden change of subject, she didn't show it.

"As long as it takes for me to know for sure that you're alright."

"Why do you care so much?" Erik asked, the concept somewhat new to him.

"Because you're brilliant, you've got serious talent, and you're..." Katherine trailed off.

"I'm what?"

"Nothing." She said quickly. "How long do you think it will be before it's safe for you to go back to your lair?"

"Several days, at the most. Everyone will think that I've gone."

"Just hope that they haven't ruined anything."

"Material objects are replaceable. Other things, I fear, are not..." Erik said sadly, turning away.

Katherine reached out and laid her hand on Erik's shoulder. He flinched at her touch. "Don't worry." she whispered. "I'm here for you."

Raoul anxiously paced up and down his marble floor, nearly regretting his decision to meet Belle that morning. What had he been thinking? Piano lessons for a... a common girl!? His head must have been swimming when he agreed to it. Raoul was no music teacher; he was a vicomte for heaven's sake!

Still, she _had_ saved his life, and for Raoul to go back on his word now would be a poor way to thank her.

Indeed, the girl seemed like the respectable sort and not one likely to discredit him by letting this arrangement get out. Raoul heaved a sigh, calling to mind the peculiar night past when he'd followed Belle home.

_Belle quickened her pace as she neared an apartment closely sandwiched between two of her neighbors. The air was heavy with a myriad of odors, each bearing witness to a lost desire of cleanliness. The consuming priority of the locals was obviously to pursue survival, and not much else. Houses pressed against each other: wall to wall in long, cramped rows, making the old doors the only distinction of each man's property. _

_Raoul finally understood why she'd been so reluctant to let him come to her home. She was embarrassed by her humble situation, no doubt. He hadn't even thought of her position before. The fact that piano lessons weren't available to her should have been a clue, but the incredible chain of events that brought about their meeting had previously clouded his mind. When someone saves you from being strangled to death, you don't stop to wonder if she's a Duchess._

_There was a candle left burning in the window of Belle's house, illuminating the worn, but pretty face of a middle aged woman sleeping in a hard backed chair with no arm rests; her head gently bent towards the open view of the street._

_Belle cautiously touched the door handle so as not to wake her mother, but all her prudence was for naught. The moment Belle's foot crossed the threshold, the woman rose out of her chair and eagerly called out in a voice raspy from sleep, "Albert! Albert, she's home!"_

_Raoul watched from the corner of a building, hidden in the night shadows as a man anxiously pushed his way into view, his hands eagerly turning the wheels of a crudely made chair._

_Belle allowed her mother to clasp her tightly before she broke free to embrace her father. "Papa, you shouldn't be up still," she murmured._

_"Your mother and I have been worried sick about you! All night there have been rumors in the street of the theatre fire. People are speaking of a terrible monster who kidnaps young girls, kills helpless women, and I know not what else. We could hardly discern fact from fiction, the tales were so bizarre! I never would have let you go if I knew such things would come about._

_"And what's this?! You're all wet… and smell like you've been keeping company with sewer rats."_

_Belle kissed her father's balding head, "Not half of the stories about the so called monster are true, Papa. The streets were crowded with angry opera goers trying to find..." Belle caught herself before exposing Erik's secret. "...Trying to find the source of the fire. I stayed away until they tired of their search and the violence had settled."_

"_That still doesn't explain your singular appearance," Marie insisted._

"_We—that is –Katherine and I, went down to where a lake runs under the opera house. It was the safest place from the fire; plenty of water." _

_" Our daughter has inherited some of your good sense," Albert said to his wife. Turning his attention back to Belle, he said, "Very well, my sweet one. Let us hope a similar incident does not occur."_

_"What of Katherine?" Marie asked. "Was she able to get home safely?"_

_Belle chose her words carefully; a lie being beyond her ability under such exhausting circumstances, "She's... fine." _

Far better off than Christine_, Belle thought to herself._

_Marie nodded, content with her answer, and kissed Belle's forehead, "Don't stay up painting tonight, love. You need rest. I can tell by the heaviness in your eyes."_

_"Yes, Mama."_

_The woman moved away but then quickly turned back around and added, "No sketching, either!"_

_Belle smiled, "No, Mama."_

_It was then in the brief instant before the door was shut that Raoul noticed the numerous paintings and drawings cluttered all over the front room. Many leaned against the mantle; vivid landscapes against subtle faces, and a great deal more were stacked on top of each other for lack of space elsewhere. A select few were nicely framed and hung on the wall, one of which greatly struck the Vicomte's interest._

_The canvas depicted a young girl of assumedly eighteen years reclining on a rich, crimson sofa. Her curly hair fell in dark rivulets along her shoulders, and contrasted beautifully with her clear, pale skin. Every line in her soft features expressed perfect repose. Except for her rich surroundings, the girl in the painting seemed to be the exact copy of Belle._

_All this Raoul took in within a single moment, turning back the way he came as soon as the door closed and prevented him from watching any further.  
_

Raoul was moved out of his reverie by a footman announcing that a, "Mademoiselle Belle" was requesting admittance into the parlor.

"She didn't use the front door?" Raoul asked.

"No, sir. Pardon me for saying so, sir, but I believe that would not be entirely wise."

"Of course. Yes, show her in."

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Katherine jerked awake, bashing her head against the stone wall that was behind her. She cursed under her breath, rubbing the back of her head with annoyance. How had she fallen asleep, there of all places, leaning against a wall?

She blinked her eyes clear of sleep. The events of the previous night came flooding back to her. The opera, the scene in the lake, Erik... She remembered, then, falling asleep against the wall, watching Erik pace the circular room, afraid to leave him alone. The fact that she remembered so much shocked her. She was always a dull wreck in the mornings.

Katherine tried looking around the circular room, but it was pitch black and she couldn't see her own hand in front of her face. She barely had time to mull over the situation when a candle burst to life, seemingly of its own accord, before it illuminated Erik. Katherine stood up slowly, hearing her back snapping and popping as she did so. She winced at the sensation.

"You should go home," Erik said, causing Katherine to jump. "Your family is probably worried sick."

Katherine blinked several more times, willing her memory and her wits to return to her.

"My father is away on business. He's a merchant. Spends weeks traveling around searching for the most curious things," she said tiredly.

"Then your mother must be absolutely distraught," Erik said coolly, only a slight change of tone when the word 'mother' crossed his lips.

Katherine scoffed. "Oh, worried sick, I'm sure. She's out... what was it she said? Experiencing the world on her own. I could use a change of clothes, though..." she said thoughtfully. "And Belle will probably want to know what happened... Yes, I think I'm going to swing home for a bit."

"A bit?"

"I'll be back," she said. "Will you be okay?"

It was Erik's turn to scoff. "You will not be back. Not that I can lay any blame on you for that..." his hand reached unconsciously towards the right side of his face. He ignored her second question.

"I'll be back," she said again, more firmly than last time. "Because I said that I'll be back."

Katherine had a hard time finding her way out of the winding labyrinth of the cellars. It was pitch black, and she couldn't see a thing. She bumped into the walls about fifty times before she emerged. It wasn't much brighter out of the cellars than it was in the cellars, but at least there was _some _sunlight streaming in. Katherine was glad that she knew the cellars well. If she hadn't, she would have never found her way out in the darkness. She'd rather be bruised than lost.

It wasn't easy escaping through the charred rubble of the formerly grand Opera Populaire, and it was even harder slipping past the gendarmes who were still patrolling around the outside of the building, but Katherine managed, somehow. Luck, for once, was on her side. She didn't even trip over anything, like she expected to.

Katherine strode smoothly down a side street, towards the familiar shop, the place she'd grown up. The windows crowded with the most bizarre objects from all over Europe.

Katherine smiled at the eccentricity of the place as she slid her key easily into the lock and stepped inside.

It was dark and cool inside the store. A square of sunlight illuminated the slightly dilapidated wood floor, and half of a bookshelf crowded with thick, tattered tomes. Katherine slipped up the staircase at the back of the store, to the living quarters above. She went into her small room, and rummaged around her wardrobe, changing into the first casual gown she could lay her hands on as quickly as she could. She also grabbed a candle and a book of matches from off of her bedside table for her return trip to the basements and tucked them in the pocket of her gown.

As Katherine walked the short distance to Belle's house, her curiosity started nagging at her. She wondered what happened last night after Belle left with the Vicomte. Surely nothing too terribly exciting. Raoul was, after all, a gentleman if there ever was one. She reached the small apartment before she knew it. She knocked tentatively on the door, hoping that it wasn't too early. She'd forgotten to check the time back at the shop. Judging by the amount of people bustling around, and the suns high position, Katherine hoped that it was at least sometime in the afternoon.

Belle's smiling mother answered the door. "Good afternoon, Katherine!" she beamed.

"Good afternoon, Madame Durand, is Belle home?"

"She's out today, but you're welcome to come in and have lunch,"

"Oh, no thank you," Katherine said politely. She didn't have much of an appetite at the moment, what with her stomach churning for excitement over her best friend's whereabouts.

"If you're sure..." Belle's mother trailed off.

"I have somewhere I need to be, anyway. Give my best to Monsieur Durand."

"Would you like me to tell Belle that you were asking for her?"

"Yes, please. But tell her that I most likely won't be home, so as not to waste her energy."

"Alright, dear." Belle's mother said with a smile, and shut the door as Katherine turned away and headed back towards the opera house.

It would be much more difficult to sneak back _in_ to the opera house. What she could use was some sort of distraction, but she knew better than to try and cause one.

She walked around the building, pretending to gawk. As soon as she was sure there was no one looking, she bolted back inside. She could hardly believe her luck.

It was harder trying to find her way back to the basements amid the blackened remains of the once fine adornments. It took Katherine about fifteen minutes to find her normal route. Nothing was where it was supposed to be, or if it was, Katherine couldn't tell.

Katherine made a mental note to thank Belle for leaving the gondola in the right spot. She'd have hated to have to swim. She used the matches to light the lamp in the gondola, and carefully maneuvered the little boat through the icy lake and back to the rocky cave that she knew so well. She made sure to light the candle before extinguishing the lamp in the boat, and then she made her way back through the mirror passage.

Erik looked up in surprise when he heard Katherine's approaching footsteps. She emerged from the passageway, blinking at the sudden brightness of the torch-lit room. She blew out her candle and tucked it back into her pocket.

"You came back," Erik said, surprised. "I can't believe that you came back..."

"Didn't I say that I would come back?"

"I... Why did you come back?" Erik asked, unable to grasp the concept.

"Because I said that I would?" Katherine said again, wondering what was so unclear about her answer.

"But _why_? Why are you here?"

"Would you rather I leave?" Katherine asked. "I just thought that you'd like a bit of company... someone to talk to..."

"Company," Erik sighed. "Would be nice."

Belle's mind was overwhelmed by what her eyes were showing her. She hoped she could recall every detail that thrilled her sharp perspective. She had to remember everything to the very last trifle, as it was unlikely she'd be witness to such magnificence a second time.

She stood fixated on a wide length of floor behind a massive staircase that split off into two sections after a twelve foot climb from the bottom. Her shoes looked altogether out of place on the regal starburst pattern gracing the polished marble they were rooted upon. Before her was the foyer; open, wide, glistening with aristocratic luxury, and large enough to hold two of her bedrooms in. Above all hung a gold chandelier, giving off such a glow that were it hung from the sky, could light Belle's entire street on its own. The walls rose high, elegantly joined to the ceiling with whirling borders of white and gold. Everything was shining, as if newly scrubbed and immune to the dirt and grime of a Parisian back street.

All of this, Belle wanted to hold in her head as long as she lived. She could spend well over a month working with a brush just to preserve the image of the foyer with everything that caught her quick eye. She grew anxious with the thought that she might forget some wondrous mark of beauty. Belle knew vicomtes were rich of course, but such grandiose wealth even she never imagined.

A white-haired footman who's uniform was probably worth more than Belle's house showed her to a sitting room at their left and up ahead. Belle could have been equally taken with the grandeur and the beauty of the instrument gracing the room, had it not been so near the vicomte who Belle's full attention was soon fixed on.

To Belle, the bright sheen on the mantle could never equal the muted gold in the locks of hair falling to Raoul's balanced shoulders, and the hanging portrait of a long deceased de Chagny had no attraction beside the sculpted features and soft, almost feminine eyes of his descendant. The ceiling may have been uncommonly high, but Belle saw no further than the few inches past her eye level where Raoul's welcoming—if not confused—gaze stopped to meet hers.

The footman announced her with what Belle perceived to be a hint of amusement, though she had no way of being certain. She let him finish his duties before she curtsied prettily and cleared her throat in preparation.

Raoul too, felt the awkwardness of the situation. He was at a loss as to how he should greet her, knowing what he did of her origins and family. By and by, he decided it was better to show too much respect rather than too little, and in recognition of this, swept a hand behind him in offer of a seat.

Belle declined to sit; afraid her clothes might leave some obvious stain of her unworthiness on the cushion, or the chaise might repel her altogether. She let her eyes flit across the room for once and began to speak in slow, quiet tones.

"I don't know if you know exactly who I am, but I think it's only fair to tell you before anything is settled.

"My name is Belle Durand, and my parents are Albert and Marie Durand. We live in a little house against a dirty street, smaller than half your first floor; cold in the winter and hot in the summer. My father was a cobbler until he got sick and was paralyzed from the prolonged illness. People said he could continue in his trade with a little help, but he was never good at making shoes, and so I took on all pecuniary responsibilities for my family. A few friends of ours helped me get started with some canvases and material, and since then I've been painting things—pictures—for people to buy.

"You agreed to give piano lessons to a stranger, knowing nothing about her, and at a time when it might have seemed impossible to refuse. If I made you feel obligated to teach me, that was my negligence and I'm sorry. You don't have to admit me into your home, let me sit at your beautiful piano," even as she said it, she found herself looking with longing at the stately instrument, "or waste your valuable time with lessons. But I will tell you that I'm honest, capable, quick to learn, and I wouldn't dream of shaming you with any peculiar behavior." She cast a tentative glance at Raoul, who had listened to her full discourse in respectful silence.

He faltered for words, finding it strange to hear his own doubts echoed through the voice of this young creature standing before him. Having her here made his former judgment seem petty and unjust to him now. The girl was certainly poor, but she carried herself well and entirely without the slovenly, disrespectful attitude he attributed to the lower class. Although clothed in a homely frock, Belle's slight frame did not look ungainly or awkward beneath it. She spoke with surprising intelligence and clarity, never rushing the point, or letting her words slur together like a flock of careless chickens. Raoul was struck with a sudden realization of how similar her dark eyes and fair skin were to his own beloved's. Belle had a touch more color to her complexion, due to a less pampered lifestyle, and her eyes had a queer intensity that were abandoned for a quieter calm in Christine's matching pair, but were they set side by side and given the same style of gowns, the two girls could have been taken for cousins. Perhaps even sisters.

Belle released a subtle breath when Raoul broke the silence. "You've no reason to worry yourself over it. I hadn't fully considered the ramifications myself. The single thought in my mind was repaying a debt that could never fully be paid. Piano lessons for two lives seems a disturbingly unfair arrangement. If you still have a desire to play, I'll teach you. And more than that, I'll be happy to."

Belle smiled gratefully, "I do want to play, very much. And to dispel any concerns on the subject of prattle, I promise your... teaching will go unknown by everyone I speak to, excepting my parents and Katherine."

"Fair enough," Raoul said. "Would you care to sit down for a moment?" Having her standing made him anxious.

Belle took a seat with some hesitation. Not wanting to allow an awkward silence to cripple their ease, she politely asked if Raoul had been to see Christine.

"No, I have not been so fortunate. Philippe says her state of health is still too fragile for her to receive visitors. Although I have to admit, it puzzles me that she doesn't make an exception for her fiancé."

"Perhaps the… things that happened last night are still too fresh in her memory to want any reminders of it," Belle put thoughtfully.

"Then am I not the one best suited to comfort her?" Raoul asked rhetorically with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Belle looked reproached, as if she'd said something wrong and had just been chided for it.

"Never mind," he said. "You're probably right."

"I'm sure if it takes her much longer to recover, she'll write to you at least," Belle assured him. "But I shouldn't have come so soon. Your arm couldn't have healed over night," she declared, eyeing the conspicuous bulge in Raoul's sleeve.

"I hadn't intended on using it, actually. The first lessons require little more than pointing and explaining, and that's hardly something I'd over exert myself in. So once again, there's no reason to be concerned on my account."

With Belle's uncertainties put aside, the two sat down to their first lesson together. Belle caught on quickly and soon learned how to associate the right black marks with their corresponding keys. Raoul noted how she absorbed herself in the task, ignoring all else while so employed, and once again he was reminded of Christine.

Belle was well aware of her similarities to Miss Daae. She hadn't decided yet whether to bless or curse them, but she had a feeling she was soon to find out.

The next few hours passed fleetingly as Raoul spent them explaining to Belle what the other symbols on the music sheet stood for. At the sound of a clock's chime, Belle started and abandoned her seat at the piano bench.

"Oh, it's much later than I realized!" she cried. "I should go before Marcus tires of saving my spot for me."

"Where are you going?" Raoul asked, expecting Belle's reply to be something quite different than what it was. He assumed she was going to hear someone in the park speak on political issues or revolutions.

"I... I have to try to sell some of my works. If I get there too late, the best spots are taken and business is slower," she remarked quickly.

"Oh, don't let me keep you then."

Belle curtsied her farewell and scurried away, heading for home as fast as her feet would carry her.

"Belle, what are you doing home so early?" Madame Durand wondered as her daughter rushed through the door in apparent haste. "Have you sold many paintings already?"

"No, Mama," Belle sighed while scrutinizing dozens of her paintings and placing the prettiest ones in a large carrying case. "The truth is I haven't tried to sell anything today."

"Well where have you been all this time?"

Monsieur Durand wheeled himself out to satisfy his own curiosity as well. Belle's parents' apartments were unusually situated on the first floor of their house to better convenience Albert who no doubt would have had difficulty making his way downstairs every morning.

Belle looked at her parents questioning glances and told them the plain, simple truth, "I was at the Vicomte de Chagny's taking piano lessons."

Monsieur and Madame Durand were shocked, to say the least.

"You know we have no money to spare for that," Albert reproached her.

"Yes, but the Vicomte is giving them to me freely."

Albert's features darkened, "What do you mean, Belle? Vicomtes do not tutor humble girls for free. What are you doing for him in exchange?"

Belle grew puzzled for a moment, "Nothing, I…"

"Your father has a right to be concerned," Marie said. "This isn't normal behavior at all. Neither for the Vicomte, nor for you, my dear. I think you'd better tell us what you're giving him in return."

"I... I saved his life," Belle admitted before the interrogation turned ugly.

"You what?" Both parents exclaimed at once.

Belle's mind raced for a truthful explanation that would keep all masked strangers out of the story. "During the opera fire, when we were all escaping from the wreck. He... he was... pinned against some iron, and--"

"You pulled him free from it?" Marie finished for her.

"Yes, I did." It was true. Perhaps not the way Belle's parents imagined, but at least she was free from a guilty conscience.

"You saved his life?" Albert breathed. "Why ever didn't you mention this before?"

"I saw no need. I have to go now and try to make up for lost time," Belle said, collecting her wares.

"Oh, before you leave..." Marie stopped her, "Katherine wanted me to say that she came looking for you. But she also said she most likely wouldn't be home. Perhaps she's found a count to give her violin lessons," she joked. "Be safe, my love."

Katherine. Belle was dying to know how her friend had spent the night and how Erik was managing so far. She had no time to find her, however, as the precious time lost on her lessons should have been spent making the meager amount of money her paintings provided. Also, there was little chance of Belle finding her way through the rubble of the opera house without Katherine's help.

Belle set up her paintings in a way that set off the colors to their best advantage, and tried to calm the jittery feelings inside herself. _Soon enough_, she thought over and over, _I'll find out soon enough._

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Is there no one who looks after you while your father is away?" Erik asked Katherine. She'd talked hours away with him, telling him anything he asked about her life and her family. She acted as if she were at a social gathering chatting with an old friend. How, Erik wondered, could she stand to look upon his horrid face without fear or disgust? What was it about this strange girl that enabled her to look at him as if he were just like anyone else? It perplexed him.

"There used to be a woman who checked in on me for several hours during the day... Madame Payeur, but she died when I was sixteen. I don't know that my father realizes that, to be perfectly honest." Katherine laughed lightly. "He tends to miss small details like that. I'm old enough to be able to look after myself now, anyway."

"An unobservant father is better than no father at all." Erik remarked distantly.

Katherine fell silent, unsure of what to say. What _could_ she say? It tortured her to have to watch Erik's eyes swim with unknown emotion and be able to do nothing for him.

The silence was beginning to make her feel slightly awkward, like a foolish child. She wished Erik would ask another question, but he too was silent.

Katherine vaguely wondered what time it was. Not that it mattered, since her father wasn't due to arrive back home until sometime next week. She would, however, like to see Belle sometime soon. The curiosity was beginning to tax her.

"You should probably get home," Erik said at last. "It's getting late."

Katherine jumped slightly at the sudden shattering of silence, but quickly composed herself.

"Will you be alright here alone until tomorrow?" she asked uncertainly.

"I've been alone my entire life. One night will not do me any harm."

Katherine felt reassured, but only slightly. "I'll be back as soon as I can tomorrow," she said. "And I _will_ be back," she added.

Katherine walked through the streets of Paris, reveling in the cool evening air. She wondered if Belle would be home yet, and then she remembered that it was Saturday. Belle sold paintings in the park every Saturday. Katherine changed her course, speeding up and hoping that she hadn't missed her.

"Belle!" Katherine exclaimed upon seeing her friend, who was just beginning to pack up her wares.

"Katherine!" Belle jumped in surprise, almost dropping a small painting but catching it just in time. "Mama told me that you'd come around asking for me earlier."

"Where were you?" Katherine asked in excitement.

Belle's face lit up. "I was at the de Chagny's. The Vicomte agreed to give me piano lessons in return for saving his life. How did things go with Erik?" she gushed.

"The Vicomte agreed to give you piano lessons?" Katherine demanded. "Incredible."

"How did things go with Erik?" Belle asked again.

"Oh, fine I guess. I'm not dead, so that's something, isn't it?"

"I mean how is he?"

"He's alright, I think. Doesn't exactly wear his emotions prominently."

"You must fill me in on everything that happened!"

"Only if you let me help you with those," Katherine saw Belle struggling to hold everything. She wondered how she'd managed to get it all here in the first place.

"I thought you'd never ask," Belle said, unloading half of everything into Katherine's waiting arms.

The two girls described their separate adventures in great length to one another, hardly stopping for breath until they reached the Durand's. With her friend by her side in familiar surroundings, Belle was all ease and cheer. She felt no social restraints or fear of committing a humiliating blunder.

Katherine noted the difference and teased her about it, "If the Vicomte could see you like this, he'd soon have trouble remembering Christine's name."

Belle blushed and shifted one of the paintings under her arm, "The man's just gone through a terrible shock. I'm not trying to make him forget anything except the terrors of that night."

"But if something were to cause his affections to take a little turn, you'd hardly be disappointed."

"Naturally. I don't even need to ask if the same goes for Erik. He seems more likely to absorb himself in his misery, though. Perhaps that's where he finds his inspiration. You have your work cut out for you, Katherine."

"Indeed. I'll just have to show him other means of inspiration."

Belle laughed at Katherine's meaningful expression. "You know, I don't think we could have fallen for two more different men if we tried."

"We couldn't help it," Katherine said with a charming smirk. "Love is like breathing. Once you decide it's silly to resist, the rest comes naturally.

"But really, Belle, sadness doesn't suit you. If the Vicomte can't like you for the way you are, he's hopeless."

"I don't mean to conform," Belle sighed. "It's just so hard to be assertive when talking to a man of his social stature. Not to mention the fact that under normal circumstances, we wouldn't even be talking to each other in the first place."

Katherine nodded in understanding and lingered a moment outside the Durand's door. Neither of the girls had free hands for knocking.

"Should we put some of these down," she wondered, "or knock with our foreheads?"

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	6. Chapter 6

****

Chapter 6

Katherine walked back to the shop quickly under the rapidly darkening sky, rubbing the red spot on her forehead. _I shouldn't have knocked so hard._ She thought.

She rounded a corner and stopped, gaping. The light was on in the shop, which meant that her father must be home, and no doubt furious or worried sick at her absence.

Katherine tentatively slipped in the side door and crept into the little store.

"Papa," she started. "I didn't think you were coming home until next week."

"Where have you been?!" he demanded. "I've been here all afternoon, wondering if you were ever going to come home! After I caught wind of that disaster at the opera house... and with you not being home. I didn't know what to think!"

"Relax, Papa," Katherine soothed. "I was with Belle in the park." _Besides_, she thought, _It's not completely a lie_.

"Just... Just don't do it again! I thought something had happened."

"I'm sorry, Papa. I would have left a note but I didn't expect you home until next week. Why are you home so soon, anyway?" she asked.

"Nothing really. A spot of trouble in England with---"

"Tell me you didn't demand a private audience with the queen again," Katherine asked, exasperated.

"No, no. I learned my lesson last time, believe me. No, this time I ran into a bit of trouble with a young lord. You see, he was rather drunk and lost quite a bit of money to me in a card game. The next day, he accused me of stealing it from him. I tried to return the money, but by that time he'd already set the police on my tail, so I just left the money on the man's porch at midnight with a note and fled."

"Papa! That's serious!" Katherine cried, though she had to admit it wasn't nearly as terrible as that whole ordeal with the Tsar in Russia. "How do you manage to get yourself in so much trouble? And what did I tell you about gambling with strangers? Didn't I say it would lead to trouble somewhere down the road?"

"It was just a little game, dear," he said, patting her cheek. "The stakes were low, but as I said, the man was drunk."

"Just do me a favor, and make sure the next lord you decide to play cards with is sober," she sighed.

Katherine retired to bed, slightly apprehensive. It would be several weeks before her father would leave again, giving her little to no time to sneak off to go and check on Erik. And hadn't she said she'd be back?

She felt awful as she crawled under the covers, extinguishing the candle on her bedside table with a quick huff of air, plunging the room into darkness. _Perhaps_, she thought _I'll be able to slip away tomorrow_.

The weeks passed, and Katherine's father would barely let her out of his sight. He escorted her to and from Belle's house, which wasn't very often, and he didn't permit her to leave the house otherwise. For the first time in her life she was beginning to look forward to his next departure. Katherine attributed his behavior to the few hours he had spent after he returned, thinking she'd died in the fire.

Erik, having deemed it safe, ventured back into his old dwelling, gradually repairing all damages and ruin that the mob had left in its wake. Every now and then, he would find himself anticipating the footsteps echoing across his stone floors he was sure would never come, or the gentle slosh of the gondola through the water. With a last bit of hope, he decided that he would leave the gondola on the other side of the bank, even though he was sure she would not return. Every day he vowed that tomorrow would be the day he waded out to retrieve the boat, but he never did.

He cursed himself for falling into the trap he swore he'd never fall into again. He'd become dependent on her company, he'd enjoyed it. He trusted her to return to him. He thought she was different, that maybe she could actually see past his distorted features and into his heart and soul, to actually see that he wasn't the monster he looked like. Apparently he was wrong. She was no better than the rest of the world. He swore and lashed out a vicious kick at the wall. This was the fifth time in the last hour he'd found himself thinking about her. He wanted nothing more than to forget. After losing Christine, the strange girl was a comfort to him, and she too was gone. Erik realized he didn't even know her name. _Perhaps it is for the better_, he thought. _Knowing would only make it harder._

A month and a half passed before Katherine's father started packing for his next departure. Katherine didn't really know where he was going. She was sure he'd mentioned it at least seven times in the last hour, but her mind was on other matters. The second his carriage rounded that corner, she'd sprint off to the opera house and, finally, fulfill her promise to Erik.

"Are you sure you'll be alright here by yourself? I can have Madame Payeur come and check on you every now and then, just to be sure..."

"Papa, I'm fine. Go. And remember what I said about gambling with strangers... or buying something that even looks like it might belong in a palace. And make sure that you don't fall into another river, and Papa, if someone claims to be the Emperor of Japan, don't believe them unless they can produce documented proof."

Her father laughed. "Promise," he said, kissing her on the forehead and leaving.

Katherine waited ten minutes before slipping out the side door and half running down the street. She was worried about what state Erik would be in when she returned. Hadn't she promised? By breaking that promise she made herself seem like a shallow liar.

The gendarmes were no longer stationed around the ruined opera house. The premises were roped off to deter trespassing, and it was apparent to all who passed that the once grand building would not be restored. Who was fool enough to take the job? After all, the Phantom's whereabouts were unknown to all but two people in the whole of France. Katherine slipped under the ropes easily and picked her way through the path that would lead her to the basements, lighting a candle before she began her descent.

Erik looked up. He thought he heard the soft sound of water being in front of the little boat. _Fool,_ he thought _You're imagining things again._ Another sound drifted to his ears. This time he was sure he heard it. He became very still. Was that the flicker of a candle approaching in the darkness? Sure enough, only a minute later, a figure, perched and standing carefully in the boat came gliding out of the darkness and into the burst of light created by his candles.

"Monsieur, a letter for you." Another finely dressed man servant brought Raoul a sealed missive on a silver tray.

"At last," Raoul breathed as he greedily tore open the envelope. It was addressed with Philippe's large, flowing script and pressed with his seal. Christine must have been too drained to write the letter herself. No doubt she dictated a message for Raoul through his brother.

Raoul's heart sank, however, as soon as he'd scanned the first two lines. It was evidently not written by Miss Daae, but only another letter from the Count, informing his brother of the special care Christine required and how the opera house events were still mentally harrowing for her.

Raoul despondently refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. He had half a mind to drive straight to Philippe's house and force his way inside, but remembering Belle's words concerning Christine's persistent fear of the Phantom helped him to restrain himself.

"_I wouldn't be surprised if she was waiting to see you in consideration of your own safety, as well as hers_," she'd said. "_Erik... the Phantom, seems to be the sort to hold a grudge. And I'm sure he has ways of finding out where you live and who you meet. There's still a considerable risk for you to be seen together._"

And so, keeping that in mind, Raoul waited anxiously for something from his fiancée.

Nearly two months went by and still Raoul hadn't received a single word from Christine. Several were sent to him from Philippe, but all were filled with excuses for the girl and Raoul ceased to wait so impatiently for the mail.

As for Belle, no time passed so quickly as that which was spent on her lessons, and happy was the day for her when Raoul permitted her to abandon the formal "Monsieur" and address him by his first name. Soon, he was not just _the Vicomte_, but a friend as well as a tutor. Their meetings were still kept a secret to all but her immediate family of course, but Belle felt no need to boast of his attentions to anyone.

Little by little, Belle lost her timidity around him and told Raoul more of the life that was so vastly different than his. He learned about the untimely death of her older sister, Claire - the girl who's painting had affected Raoul before - and the solace Belle found in expressing her grief and comforts through her art. She explained how the illness that took her sister and paralyzed her father had shattered his confidence when forced to let others help provide for his family.

Through all the hardships the Durands were put through, Belle had been the mortared wall, keeping her family together with unwavering care and diligence. When their monetary needs seemed dire, it was Belle who suggested selling some of her paintings to help put food on the table.  
All of this was uttered with the utmost humility and respect, but Raoul gathered certain details between spoken phrases.

He grew fond of hearing Belle's light step on the marble floor, and found her a ready sympathizer for all his troubles over Christine. Belle never once discredited Miss Daae, though it often pained her to think that Raoul compared the two to each other. If the Vicomte was learning to see her worth, that was fine, but not if it meant that she was becoming Christine's replacement.

"Why don't you try this one?" Raoul suggested, propping a piece of music up on the rack.  
Belle was now accustomed to playing songs regularly and she happily agreed to Raoul's request once she'd decided the piece was manageable enough with her imperfect skill.

Three measures into the song, Raoul rested a hand on Belle's shoulder while he watched her progress. To her chagrin, Belle's fingers unexpectedly faltered and she missed a note, making her cheeks turn a rosy pink.

"It's mean to be sung," Raoul clarified, pointing to the words on the sheet. He smiled down on her, wondering if she'd ignored them on purpose.

"Oh," Belle started. "I don't sing."

"You don't, but you can. I've heard you sing while gathering up your things or preparing to leave. You may have been unaware of the fact that it was audible enough for me to hear, but I've heard your voice, nonetheless."

Belle was mortified. She had no faith in her singing capabilities.

"There's no need to be embarrassed," Raoul assured her. "You have a charming voice. It's very pure and unaffected. A bit unsteady, perhaps, but with practice you could become a proficient."

Belle smiled in disbelief. She didn't have the lungs to be anything beyond average.

"Christine had a voice much like yours once; before she found her 'great tutor,'" Raoul continued. He was trying to encourage Belle, not realizing how the comparison bothered her.

Belle did what she could to hide her feelings of resentment by playing the song again; this time with the words.

"_How fast the sun doth hide its face, _

"_How soon the moon appears_..." Belle trailed off. Her nerves wouldn't allow her to sing above a shaky murmur.

Raoul joined her on the bench and placed his hands under hers, guiding them along the keys. He noticed how short her fingers were and thought it was no wonder she had such difficulty changing octaves. Her hand barely stretched far enough to do so.

"_We none can grasp the hands of time_," he sang, urging Belle to go on.

"_Or stop the fleeting years_," they finished together.

Belle gained more confidence with Raoul's voice joining hers, and soon he was able to stop altogether and allowed Belle to persevere on her own.

"_The gentle blush on maidens' cheeks,_

"_Can fade within a breath,_

"_All roses bleed their colors dry,_

"_Yet we mourn to be left._"

Those words touched Belle in a way that brought the moisture to her eyes. She had known that feeling when her sister died, and it still chose to haunt her late at night when the deepest emotions took hold of her, tugging at her heart. She let go of all thoughts, save those of her sister, and sang the last verse almost perfectly, "_Let us not despise the days,_

_"Still given us to live,_

_"But with a sense of hope beyond,_

_"We'll take them as a gift_."

Belle sat back and smiled. "I like that song," she said, "Why haven't you shown it to me before?"

Raoul shook his head and laughed at her sudden mood swing, "Because you wouldn't have paid attention to the words if you'd only read them silently."

Belle looked back at the music and put the song to memory. The next time she woke up crying, she'd sing this to herself.

"Monsieur..."

Raoul watched the footman enter with some surprise. He wasn't expecting anyone.

"...a Madame Folliot to see you."

Belle jumped up and made a move towards the back of the piano. But even if she could have fit behind the instrument, she wouldn't have made it, for Madame Folliot herself waltzed in without waiting for the footman, giving Belle no time to escape the unwanted encounter.

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Madame Folliot! I certainly wasn't expecting you today... at this hour." Raoul knew that it was not an odd time to receive visitors, but he was attempting to indicate to the intruder that he wasn't exactly thrilled with her presence.

Unfortunately, Raoul was not very experienced with offending people, no matter the subtlety, and Mme. Folliot was used to doing what she pleased, regardless of the offence.

"Of course you weren't. That's why I came," the plump woman said, plopping herself down on the nearest sofa. "Predictable people are dull and uninteresting. How's that brother of yours?"

Raoul opened his mouth to answer, but Mme. Folliot didn't allow him to, "Never mind. What an absolutely uninspiring question to ask! Tell me instead, what you know of this opera ghost the entire city is talking about.

"That Daae girl, as we all know, is staying at the Count's, but he tells me that he wasn't the one who saved her from the clutches of evil. So that leaves you as the only potential rescuer, and I expect you to divulge all the horrific details of the entire night to me. Is it true that the ghost-- Well!"  
Mme. Folliot finally spotted Belle standing near the piano. Belle had considered slipping out sometime during the lady's excited ramble, but she decided it would imply guilt if she was noticed. And so she remained, preparing for the worst. Which is exactly what Mme. Folliot dished out.

"Monsieur de Chagny!" she exploded. "I know many rich, young men who find themselves lonely on occasion, but bringing her out in broad daylight for everyone to see is beyond..." She fidgeted uncomfortably with her hat, "Really, it's too much! I would not have expected this of you. When I say that I live for drama, I do not mean that I wish to be caught up in the middle of it!"

"Madame," Raoul turned a deep crimson and cleared his throat, "May I present to you the Duchess of Delfheim? She does not have access to a piano at her own home, so I gladly invited her to use mine. It's rather... awkward that you would mistake her purpose in coming here."

Belle was completely astonished by Raoul's dishonesty and wondered if Mme. Folliot knew that there was no such thing as the Duchess of Delfheim. Nevertheless, she curtsied slowly and gracefully, assuming all the airs of one born into privilege.

Mme. Folliot was not misled _quite_ so easily, "What Duchess ever wore...?"

"Forgive my shabby attire," Belle interrupted, "In my country the fashion hardly varies between the classes, and I have not yet had the time to unpack my jewels."

"I see. Please forgive my outburst. You understand my confusion, of course."

Belle raised an eyebrow and tilted her head downward in reply, "There's no permanent harm done, I'm sure. Now, if you'll excuse me, I was just leaving."

Belle was put to a halt as Mme. Folliot questioned her aversion to the front door.

"One of our traditions," Belle said naturally, "We leave by the back door when we've made a social blunder." She thought she saw a glimmer of laughter in Madame's eyes as she made her exit from the room, but she wasn't certain.

Raoul excused himself and followed Belle to the door.

"Why are you leaving so soon?" he asked.

"I can't stay here and wait for your guest to find out that we've made a fool of her. I can't believe you told her such a ridiculous lie!"

"Ridiculous?"

"A Duchess!? Raoul, please, it's quite possibly the silliest thing I've ever heard. This is my best gown, and yet with one glance at the pattern, Madame Folliot could tell that only a struggling artist would be forced to make do with it."

She tried to leave, but Raoul took her by the wrist, "Not _so_ ridiculous. The way you made her second guess herself was amazing." He took her other arm to make her face him, "Belle, you'd make a splendid Duchess. Or even a Count-"

"Stop it," Belle cried. A few, unexpected tears escaped from her eyes and Raoul was surprised at her vehemence. She pulled away and ignored the steady stream that continued to course down her cheeks, "It isn't fair to speak of such things. Or to make me pretend to be anything special." Belle hesitated a moment, "I don't think I should come here anymore."

"Wait... Belle!"

The girl was gone before Raoul could voice his protests.

"What is that girl's real identity?" Mme. Folliot asked as soon as Raoul had returned. She smiled at Raoul's befuddlement, "Come now, we both know there's no Duchess of Delfheim, and it's been ages since anyone has amused me so much. But judging from her looks, I doubt she was here for the reasons I originally implied. So explain to me what she was doing here."

Raoul saw that there was no use in lying to her, so he admitted his ill thought deception.

"I wasn't the one who rescued Christine the night of the opera fire. Technically, neither was Philippe, though he played a part as well."

"Go on," Mme. Folliot urged Raoul as he paused to determine just how much of the story he should relate.

"There were two girls that saved us all from the Phantom's labyrinth. One, I haven't seen since, and the other was Belle; the girl who just left us. The one you found so amusing."

"How did they save you?"

"Belle led the way out and her friend, Katherine, I think she was called... anyway, that's not relevant to Belle's identity."

Raoul's guest was thwarted by his refusal to elaborate on the subject, but for once in her life, she didn't make a fuss.

"You should marry her," she said. "You should marry that 'Belle' and make everyone think she is a Duchess. Of course, you'd have to come up with a better name and story than the one you tried to feed me, but she could pull it off beautifully, and I'd love to see her turn the heads of all those pompous aristocrats."

Poor Raoul had no idea how to respond to such a suggestion, except to remind the Madame that he was already engaged.

"Yes, I know. It's a pity.

"Oh, not for you, I mean. I just don't find Miss Daae that interesting."

Had Mme. Folliot been there to see Raoul open his mail later that afternoon, she would have given Christine more credit for causing a stir. Fortunately for Raoul, she wasn't.

He felt a surge of hope as his fingers passed under the scented envelope and pulled out a letter covered entirely in Christine's handwriting. There was something still inside the envelope creating an oddly shaped bulge, but Raoul ignored it, being too intent on the words before him.

_My Dear Raoul,  
Please forgive me for not writing to you sooner. There are rumors circulating that_ he_ still lurks somewhere in Paris, and I was afraid for us both in case he should have a change of heart and come after us once more. I thought it would be safer to wait a while before answering all your letters.  
There is also something I must tell you, Raoul, which makes it difficult for me to write. I am still afraid of him. His face continues to pervade my dreams and make a good night's rest nearly impossible. Where harmless shadows lie, I imagine dark figures garbed in long, black cloaks singing the haunting melodies that have become all too familiar to me. No matter where I am, I carry the fear that he will find me.  
I think it would be best if I went away. Somewhere far away where I can leave these dark thoughts behind forever. Soon, I'll be in England with Philippe.  
Please don't follow me. You must understand that the things I was forced to witness in the depths of the opera have changed me. I can't bear to be reminded of it; any of it. If I stay with you, I'll never be free of him.  
For all you've been to me, thank you. In returning your ring, and the heart you so freely gave, I send my sincere hope that in time you will learn to forgive me.  
I am truly sorry.  
Goodbye my love,  
Christine_

* * *

I realize that this makes me a horrible, insanely cruel person with my own agenda. I think I can live with that. Maybe... Ah! What's wrong with Christine?? She's Christine. That's what's wrong. And it serves my purposes to make her exit the story. For now... ;)

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Katherine maneuvered the little boat to shore and carefully climbed out. Erik stood a little ways away, trying to keep himself from gaping with surprise at the girl's sudden reappearance. Katherine was unsure of what to say, and hoped that Erik would speak first.

Silent minutes passed, and Katherine decided that he wasn't going to say anything.

"I.. Bet you're wondering why I didn't come back," she said.

"No, I know why."

Katherine was slightly surprised, but didn't question him. "Then you're not upset?"

Erik stared at the girl incredulously. "No, not upset at all," he spat.

Katherine was confused by his tone. "You are upset," she said. "It's not as if I did it on purpose, you know. The whole thing was rather unavoidable."

"Unavoidable?" Erik raged. "Not as if you did it on purpose? Had a bit of a change of heart, did you? Unable to bear to look upon my horrid face again? Did you rethink all of your kind words? Take them back?"

"What are you talking about?" Katherine demanded, her temper beginning to flare. "You make it seem as if I planned for it to happen so I would have an excuse not to visit you!"

"So I suppose it was just an _accident_ that you decided I was unworthy to be graced by your presence."

"Again, _what _are you talking about? Would you rather have had me wandering blindly through the streets of Paris in the wee hours of the morning?"

"Not the wee hours of morning, no, but how difficult would it have been for you to come and tell me?"

"He wouldn't let me out of his sight! I barely even got to see my friend! I haven't had a second to myself since he came home!"

"Who?"

"My father? The reason I haven't had a chance to come and see you?"

Erik was clearly confused. "Your father..?"

Katherine was hit with sudden realization. "You thought I decided against coming to see you because... Oh, how could you have thought that?" Her voice had taken on a more gentle tone.

"Your father came home?" he asked again, clearly taken aback, and slightly ashamed of himself.

"He came home, and I wasn't there. He thought maybe I'd died in the fire, and he hasn't let me out of his sight since. I dashed down here the second he left."

"I thought that you'd..."

"I know what you thought," she walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched. "Never think that," she paused. "When did you move back here?"

"Several weeks ago," Erik answered, thankful for the subject change.

"I'll bet it's nice to have everything back to normal," Katherine said.

Erik sighed wistfully and inclined his head upward, almost as if searching the ceiling for something. "Normal," he whispered. "The one word I have never understood the meaning of."

Several awkward hours passed in which Katherine assisted Erik's cleaning. She organized the scattered papers, dusted off the keys of the organ, and swept up the shattered glass.

"Tell me about your family," Erik said, startling Katherine out of her silence induced stupor.

"My family? What do you want to know?" she asked, surprised by the question.

"You mentioned that your mother is away. Why did she leave? There must be a story. There's always a story.

"It's a really horrible story." Katherine said. "My mother came from a very old, and very rich family. Revolution money. When she was seventeen, she met my father. He was, as he is now, a merchant. My mother's parents disapproved, obviously, but she was strong willed and hard headed and married him anyway. Her parents cut her off.

"She never quite adjusted to the life of the working class. Her parents swore that they wouldn't take her back under their wings until she left my father, and until she left me. In my grandparent's eyes, I was never Elise's daughter. I was always Julien's daughter. They hate me as much as they hate my father.

"Last year, something happened, and my mother just... snapped. She packed everything she had and left one night. We woke up the next morning, and she just wasn't there. I can only assume she went back to her parents and that they were overjoyed. I got a letter a few days later from her, saying that she needed a little vacation and she'd be back in a month. That she felt she wasted her life on love. I haven't heard from her since. She could be dead and I wouldn't even know it. I wrote back and demanded that someone tell me where she went, but the answer I got was from her father. It was two sentences. One single line. As if one line would solve everything. I read that line over and over again until it was implanted in my mind.

"_Elise needs time to experience the world on her own. It would be better if you did not contact us again._"

"My father was crushed. He waited by the door every day for her for two months, but eventually he had to admit that she wasn't coming back. I don't think he's quite gotten over it yet. Whenever he's home, I hear him crying out her name in his sleep and I hate it because there's nothing I can do, and I hate my mother for what she did to him. How anyone could be so heartless as to just leave that man without a word... If I ever see that woman again it will be too soon. She used to sit, brushing out my hair, and she'd say, 'Ma petite, if the only thing you ever accomplish in this life time is to find love, know that you have accomplished something great.' It infuriates me to even think about it. I trusted her to always be there." Katherine took a breath. She hadn't intended to delve that deeply into the story. She'd meant only to tell the outlines of it. She knew she'd get too emotionally charged.

"Trust," Erik said, "Is hard to gain, but easy to lose."

_It must be nearly dusk, _Katherine thought as she sorted through a cabinet. She carefully set a large ceramic figurine on a table, planning to dust it later. She sifted through other objects, carefully setting them all aside. Finally, when she got down to the bottom shelf, she saw a collection of tiny buildings. There were houses, a cathedral, even a tiny palace. All were perfectly proportioned, and beautifully crafted.

"Did you make these?" Katherine asked.

Erik looked up and glanced at what she was pointing at. "Yes. Ages ago. The drawings they're made off of are lying underneath the palace, if I remember correctly."

Katherine was almost afraid to move the tiny palace. She gingerly shifted it over a little and picked up the yellowing paper that it was sitting on. She flipped through the pages, drinking in what she saw. Katherine was no architect, but she knew a masterpiece when she saw one.

"These are amazing," she said. "Where did you ever learn to do this?"

Erik shrugged. "I picked it up in a book."

"How could you pick this sort of skill up in... You should re-build the opera house."

"That would work out wonderfully, don't you think? Just imagine those headlines in the news paper."

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit. (This piece by Kit)


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The calm manner in which Christine's letter was slowly tucked into Raoul's jacket gave no indication to his true state of mind. He stared blankly at the fine engravings on the mantle; seeing nothing, but considering much.

It was finished. After everything that had passed between them, after all the struggles he'd faced and the battles he'd fought to keep her, she was gone, and by her own free will.

No, not truly gone, yet. With a rush of hope, Raoul started out of his chair, determined to stop Christine before it was too late. The moment his hand touched the cold door handle, however, he asked himself why.

Why was he still fighting for her? Besides the fact that Christine had asked him not to follow, there was his own sanity to consider. Only a mad man would continue trying to win her back when she caused so much turmoil. Mayhem, havoc, fires, hangings, threats, and murder were all the result of people fighting for Miss Daae. She was a mere opera girl with a humble name and a fragile nature.

Despite her unwitting involvement in everything, Christine certainly made things difficult for her suitors. As if that wasn't sufficient, she was now running away with Raoul's own brother!

Of course, none of that mattered when you really loved someone. And that was the reason Raoul hesitated. It was the reason why he took his hand off the door and let her go to be free.

With such negative thoughts pacing through his mind, Raoul almost had to wonder why he'd fallen for her in the first place. Was it her voice, her beauty, or her childish sweetness that made Christine desirable? Perhaps it was all of them, or none of them. After all, many of the same virtues could be seen in Belle, and Raoul wasn't in love with her.

He barely knew why, but Raoul felt that Belle was part of the reason he was able to let Christine go. In Belle, he had a friend who would readily sympathize and comfort him. She knew just what to say at all the right times, and when it was best to say nothing at all. She was the only one who would understand his plight, and he'd carelessly frightened her away that morning.

Raoul had to speak to someone, or he _would_ go mad. This time, when his hand reached the door handle, he didn't pause for anything. He walked straight out onto the bustling Parisian streets, desperately hoping he could find his way. Things had looked so different in the dark.

Marie Durand was juggling a tray with her husband's medicine on one side, and a steaming plate of food in the middle when she answered the knock at her door.

"Just a moment!" she called, temporarily setting the tray down on a paint-spattered table. The door was opened, and Mme. Durand faced a young man in a tattered cloak and hood. She thought the cloak a strange thing, as the day was fine with no chill winds.

"Madame Durand, may I come in?" the man asked.

Marie stared at him briefly, trying to discern from his voice and the little she could see of his face, whether she knew the fellow or not.

The man nervously glanced about as if fearful of unfriendly eyes that may have been watching his movements. He then slipped the hood off his head. Remarkably, not a strand of his fair hair was disturbed in the process.

"Monsieur!" Marie's wariness gave way to pure shock and she stepped back to allow the man entrance into her home. "Of course you may come in, although I don't know why you'd want to."

Marie attempted to clear some of the mess from the table, but the pile of clutter only got as far as another nearby corner.

"Is Belle at home?" Raoul removed the rest of the cloak and draped it over his arm. "She lent this to me and I keep forgetting to return it."

"I'm sure it doesn't hurt that it hides you from the common people who might pass you in the street," Marie said, trying to create conversation.

"Well..." Raoul started, "I was thinking of Belle's reputation. What others might think..."

"Yes," Marie stopped him. "I know well enough. Probably not very different from what her father first thought, I'm sure.

"Belle is here," she answered him, eyeing the tray on the table, "But I'm afraid she's locked herself in her room with a headache."

"Oh, I see." Raoul knew she was upset, but he had no idea she was _that_ upset. "Could you... could you tell her I was here, and that something's just..." he hesitated, not wanting to test his ability to speak Christine's name just yet. "Just tell her I was here?"

"Certainly."

"Good day, Madame."

"Good day, Monsieur."

Marie took the tray in hand once more, stopping first to check on her husband and give him the medicine for his cold. Once this duty was done, she carried the plate of food up to her daughter's chamber, knocking ever so gently on the wooden door.

"Yes?"

"Belle, _mon cher_, I've brought you some food."

"I'm not very hungry."

"Let your Mama in, at least, so I can speak to you and not to the door."

The door swung open, and Marie set the plate of victuals on Belle's bed.

"It's a little cold, but I was delayed by a visit- why, Belle! You've been crying!"

"Only a little," Belle sighed.

"A little, perhaps, but not too long ago, for I can see the red in your eyes. Now tell me." Marie's tone, though comforting, left no option of refusal.

"Is it...?" Belle traced the outside of her plate as she spoke, "Is it wrong to want something so high above you that you might as well be reaching for the moon?"

"Not if it's something worth having."

Belle wasn't convinced. "He just seems so perfect. And I'm a no one."

"Careful, darling. Not one of us in this world is perfect. If you go on through life without keeping that in mind, you're going to be horribly disappointed someday. Your illusion of perfection will shatter like so many pieces of broken glass. You're looking at him through rose colored spectacles." Marie lifted her daughter's chin to look into her eyes, "Do you know why this is?"

"It's because I'm in love."

Marie smiled a little, "You don't need your Mama to tell you that. But I will tell you that you are not a no one. You are the daughter of Albert and Marie Durand who love you very dearly. You've kept your family together when our world and yours was crumbling apart and you did it without complaint. If you found a chance at happiness; take it, and quickly, too."

"But he's engaged, Mama! It must be wrong to..."

"He's not married, is he?"

"Nearly."

"Well, that's not the same, is it? If he was married, I'd start to worry about you, dear, but as he isn't..." Marie trailed off there and changed the subject, "He was here looking for you."

Belle's eyes grew the size of acorns. "Here? Why?"

"His excuse was the cloak you lent him, but he seemed upset about something."

"Probably for making me upset. Or the fact that he could have been seen walking into our house."

"I don't think so. You know that I can read people."

Belle smiled, "Like a book."

"Then trust me, something is wrong. Whether you are aiming too high or not doesn't erase the fact that Raoul needs a friend. You shouldn't abandon him just because you believe you cannot have him." Marie kissed her forehead and rose to leave. "Besides, Belle Durand, in my eyes, you could never reach high enough."

After her mother left the room, Belle tried to eat a little, but the food stuck in her throat and was difficult to swallow. Abandoning her original intent to eat, Belle lay down on her bed, planning on visiting Raoul the next day to find out what the matter was.

She never got the chance.

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit. (This piece by Beth)


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"It's getting very late," Erik said. "Will you be alright walking home? Paris is a dangerous place after the sun goes down,"

Katherine was touched by his concern. "I've walked in the dark before. I'll be fine,"

"Will you be back tomorrow?"

"Unless you don't want me to,"

"No, come. I find I've come to enjoy your company,"

"Then I'll be here,"

"Promise me that you'll be careful on the way home,"

"I promise," Katherine said.

"I would rather you didn't walk," Erik scooped up several Franc pieces off of a table and held them out in his hand. "Take this and get yourself a carriage,"

Katherine refused the Francs. "Keep them. I'll be _fine_,"

Erik made a sound like he was going to protest, but he didn't say anything.

The sky was completely dark when Katherine emerged from the Opera Populaire. She opted on the quickest route home because walking in the dark always made her slightly nervous, but only slightly.  
The sound of her own feet striking against the pavement kept her company on her walk home, but soon she noted a subtle difference in the sound. She fancied she heard a second set of footsteps, in tune with her own. She shook her head. It was just the darkness toying with her mind. Nevertheless, she increased her speed. The footsteps also sped up. Katherine's heart began to pound just a little bit faster. Again she sped up, and again the following footsteps followed suit.

Katherine swore she heard the swishing of a cloak. This did nothing to calm her nerves, and it took every ounce of will power she possessed not to break out into a dead run.

After what seemed like hours, Katherine finally came upon the shop. She fumbled in her pocket for the key and shakily unlocked the door. She slipped in quickly, and bolted the lock behind her.

The next morning, after washing and eating some breakfast, Katherine opted to go visit Belle. Katherine could scarce remember the last time she'd seen Belle alone. Her suddenly overprotective father hadn't allowed Katherine to go anywhere by herself.

Katherine stepped out into the cool morning air, plotting the quickest course to Belle's house in her mind. She felt better now that the sun was out. _Next time someone offers me money for a carriage, I'm going to take it. _she thought. She was reminded of the concern that Erik showed for her, and was buried in her thoughts.

Before Katherine even knew it, she was standing outside of the familiar doorway of the Durand's house. She raised her hand and knocked.

Madame Durand opened the door. Her usually cheery face was creased with worry and exhaustion.

"Is Belle at home?" Katherine asked tentatively, sensing something wrong. She hoped it wasn't Belle's father.

"Belle's ill," Madame Durand said.

"Ill?" Katherine asked, taken aback.

"Very ill. It came on very suddenly... she was fine yesterday and now she's got a fever out of this world. She's delusional. She keeps muttering to herself about levers and boats... I can hardly make sense of it,"

"M-may I see her?" Katherine asked quietly.

"Of course," Madame Durand said, stepping back and opening the door wider. Katherine stepped in.

"Good morning, Katherine," Monsieur Durand said tiredly.

"Good morning," Katherine replied quietly.

Madame Durand led Katherine through the narrow stairway and into Belle's room.

Belle was asleep. Her white face was a sharp contrast to her mass of dark hair. A thin sheen of sweat covered her face, but she was shivering. She had dark circles under her eyes. In short, Belle looked like death had tapped her on the shoulder.

"She looks... she looks so..." Katherine stuttered.

"She'll be okay," Madame Durand said quietly, almost sadly. "She's a strong girl,"

"What's the matter?" Erik asked upon seeing Katherine's face. He set aside the piece of white leather he was fitting over the mold of a face and regarded her carefully. He could sense something was wrong.

"It's nothing to worry yourself over. Just the petty worries of a young woman," Katherine said.

Erik took up his work again, not believing for a second that it was nothing, but not wanting to pry.

"What are you making?" Katherine asked, watching as Erik shaped the leather.

"Another mask," he answered.

"Why?"

"Because I am a monster,"

"I don't believe in monsters," Katherine said.

"Christine did," Erik said quietly, anguished.

"Let her go, Erik. Christine was blind. She never would have seen you,"

"Don't ever say anything against her," Erik said icily. His tone was venomous, and Katherine sensed danger.

"There's more to life than what might have been," she said.

"What might have been is all I have. What can the future hold for me? All I have left are my dreams,"

"That's not true," Katherine protested. "You have me."

"But for how long?"

"As long as you need me."

Katherine's stomach let off a loud growl. It was late in the afternoon, and she hadn't had anything to eat since that morning. Her cheeks flushed red for a second.

"Hungry?" Erik asked, looking up from his work.

"Slightly," Katherine said.

"I'm afraid I'm out of anything edible. I was going to pick something up last night when I was out, but since I didn't have a mask, I decided against it,"

"I can run home and get something to bring back for the both of us,"

"I will be fine, but you're welcome to go and get something for yourself,"

"I'll be back as soon as I can, then," Katherine said.

Even with the sun shining, the February air was chilling. Katherine was thankful for the warm woolen gown she was wearing as she bustled down the street.

"Mademoiselle?" Someone called from behind her as she walked.

Raoul had seen Katherine pattering along the street and recognized her as the other girl from the lair. He'd been anxious to speak with her ever since Belle said they'd decided together to venture into the lair, but now that he had the chance, there were more pressing matters on his mind.

"You are Belle's friend, Katherine, am I right?"

"Yes," Katherine replied, wondering what could be so important to the Vicomte de Chagny that he would stop her in the middle of the street.

"You seem to be in a hurry, so I won't keep you for long. Have you seen her recently?"

Katherine nodded solemnly, "She's sick, you know."

"No, I didn't. I thought she was staying away from me because she was still angry." Katherine wasn't exactly sure what he was talking about.

"How sick is she?"

Seeing the concern in the sincerity of his question, Katherine took it as a good sign in Belle's favor. She did her best to keep him concerned, which wasn't difficult, considering.

"Sick enough to die. Her parents try to pretend it's nothing serious for their own sakes, but they're really very worried. Especially after what happened to Claire."

Raoul was stunned for a moment. Belle couldn't die! He needed her now to tell him Christine was a silly fool and he'd made the right decision in letting her go. He needed her to look at him with those sweet, patient eyes and sigh in sad agreement whilst he poured out his sorrows. And maybe, just maybe, to fill some of the void Christine had left in his heart.

"Would they let me see her, do you think?"

Katherine shrugged, "I can't see why they'd refuse you."

Raoul thought a moment before replying. "Thank you," he nodded. "Good day, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur."

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Poor Mme. Durand was looking years older than usual when she let Raoul through the door. During his previous visit, Raoul had seen her flustered, but still very lively and active. Today, she stood distracted, pausing occasionally to suppress the urge to cry, or stopping to look off aimlessly into the distance.

"How is she?" Raoul asked softly.

"How did you know...?"

"I spoke to Katherine."

"Well, she's no better than when Katherine last saw her, but she'll be just fine."

Marie said this more to herself than to Raoul. As if repeating it would make it so, she added again, "She'll be fine."

Monsieur Durand watched Raoul silently, his gaze intended to pierce through his thoughts and determine his purpose in coming. Raoul nodded to him respectfully, too concerned for Belle to feel uneasy over her father.

Marie paced half the length of the floor with one hand on her hip, and the other cradling her forehead.

"We wanted to move her down here to be closer to the fire," she murmured, on the verge of tears, "Albert can't make it up the stairs, and if anything happens, he wants to be nearby. But I couldn't lift her."

"I'll move her," Raoul offered.

M. Durand moved his head in consent, and Mme. Durand smiled sadly, grateful for the assistance.

The old door whined pitifully as Raoul pushed it open and stepped into Belle's world. What a contrast it was to his own! The faded wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the bare patches were half concealed by paintings and sketches that were hung over them in various places.

Belle's easel stood near her small, distressed desk which held amongst other things: brushes, paint, a handful of flowers for inspiration, and at least a dozen more portraits. Raoul noticed an unfinished sketch of himself and smiled a little. Belle had drawn him much more handsome that he really was. Or so he thought.

And of course, there against the wall, shaking on her mattress lay Belle. It was no surprise she wasn't getting better. Mme. Durand had lit all the spare candles in her room as a desperate attempt to keep the place warmer, but despite that, and the two, thin blankets draped over her, it was hardly an atmosphere that prompted a quick recovery.

Raoul knelt beside the bed and sighed at the ghastly sight before him. He could well believe Katherine's observation that Belle was sick enough to die. The eyes that he was used to seeing wide and perceptive were shut tight, but not in restful slumber. Perspiration dampened her hair, making some of it look even darker than it was, and Belle's breath came out in quick puffs, as if she fought with some invisible monster in her sleep.

Raoul hated seeing anyone in such a state. Especially one so naturally spirited. He fought back tears of pity and brushed her burning cheek with his hand. If only he could wake her and be assured that she was no longer angry with him.

"Belle," he dared only to whisper.

Her eyes fluttered open, but the dark pupils seemed to look straight through him with an unfamiliar mist. A violent shiver wracked her already failing body and she whispered incoherently before raising her head up and gazing at the flickering lights.

"There... a hundred candles burning with no warmth. But it wasn't candles that brought down the opera house." Belle gasped and clutched Raoul's arms, looking right at him, "The opera house is on fire and Raoul's gone to save Christine! Please, we have to go help him!"

Raoul was about to reply when she fell back and closed her eyes again, exhausted from her efforts to speak.

The Vicomte slipped an arm under Belle's neck and wrapped the blankets tighter around her before carrying her downstairs. The illness had taken so much of her weight that Raoul wondered how anyone so slender could still be alive.

With a terrible wrench of envy, Albert watched the man carry his precious daughter down the stairs and set her gently on the sofa by the fire.

Regarding Belle's parched lips, and unable to stand by and do nothing any longer, Raoul asked Mme. Durand for a cup of water.

Marie placed the cup in his hands with little faith, "I keep trying to get her to drink something to bring down the fever, but she won't take any of it."

Marie was proven correct when Raoul put the cup to Belle's lips and had it smacked into his face, dousing his hair and causing the water to drip onto his shoulders.

He patiently asked Marie to refill the glass and bring him a spoon with it. Marie did so, and watched curiously as Raoul dipped the spoon into the water, and ever so carefully, forced Belle's mouth open with it.

Remarkably, Belle let all the water spill into her mouth, and swallowed once it reached her throat. Marie heaved a sigh of relief, and Albert smiled in approval.

"Well, it will take forever for her to drink a full glass, but at least it's something." Raoul stood up and handed the cup and spoon to Marie. "May I get a doctor?"

Albert and Marie exchanged nervous glances.

"We can't afford one," she stated with a frown.

"I'll take care of that, of course," Raoul replied.

Silence followed. "Please let me call a doctor," he begged.

"We couldn't..." Albert began, then met his wife's pleading gaze. He studied Belle's unconscious form and was drawn to look at the portrait of Claire that was recently moved to the mantle.

"Very well."

As soon as Raoul had gone, Albert complained to his wife, "We can't accept charity from him."

Marie bent down and clasped his hands together to scold him, "Belle may die! As much as we'd like to trick ourselves into believing otherwise, she's in grave danger. If Monsieur de Chagny is willing to help us keep our only surviving child a while longer, let him."

Albert's voice shook with emotion, "It's maddening to see that that boy is able to take better care of her than I."

Marie leaned forward and kissed her husband. "A Vicomte," she muttered, "Who would have thought that our little Belle would capture the heart of a Vicomte? Didn't I always say that girl would someday accomplish the impossible?"

Within twenty minutes, Raoul was back with the doctor. After giving Belle a lengthy examination, and receiving an account of all her symptoms, Dr. Villamont shook his head.

"I don't know. At first I thought this was an ordinary fever, but it's nothing I've ever seen before. Every time I find a disease that seems to fit, I'm told of, or I see something that renders my theory completely useless." He mournfully picked up his bag and said, "I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for her."

Marie covered her mouth with her hand and began to cry silently. Albert steadied his voice with some difficulty, and thanked the doctor for his time.

"I don't want to be paid," Dr. Villamont said aside to Raoul. "I couldn't treat her, so there's no medicinal expense."

Raoul interjected, "Surely, I can give you something for your time."

"Keep your money. Use it to buy her a better blanket. At least she can be kept comfortable."

Raoul moved to depart, feeling like a weight had just been dropped on his chest. He felt as if he'd made the worst decision of his life in calling the doctor. At least before, Belle's parents had a reason to hope. And now he'd just stamped out whatever hope was left to them.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and turned to face Mme. Durand.

"Don't blame yourself," she told him, her tears already wiped away. "I'm glad we know the worst. It's better than being tortured with the thought that something could have been done, but wasn't. You've done more than we could ever repay you for."

Raoul smiled in spite of himself, "That's what I told Belle after she'd saved my life.

"Now that I have a chance to repay her, I can't."

"Then you still owe her your life," Marie stated. And with those words, the door was shut.

Raoul stood in his parlor, sickened by the sight of wealth surrounding him. The glittering chandelier, the Persian rug; even the gold on the door knobs seemed to mock him. The only thing he could stand to look at was the piano. How human it seemed to him now. He sat on the bench and buried his face in his hands. Moments later, his head was resting on the closed instrument and he had fallen fast asleep.

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"You seem distracted today, Katherine," Erik commented, not looking up from his work. Again he was slaving over the mask.

Katherine had carefully kept her eyes still and downcast all morning, afraid that a single movement would send unshed tears spilling down her cheeks. She'd gone to see Belle that morning again, and Belle's parents, though unintentionally, confirmed Katherine's fears. Madame Durand's overly cheerful façade didn't stop a sob from escaping every now and then, and Monsieur Durand's silence proved eloquent enough. Belle was dying.

"It's nothing to concern yourself over," Katherine said blankly, careful not to let a trace of emotion show, lest it trigger an avalanche of sorrow.

Erik looked up, worried. He'd never heard Katherine's voice take on such apathy, such coldness, before. "Regardless, it is obviously bothering you very much."

"It's..." Katherine hesitated. "Belle," she finished, turning around hurriedly, so that her back was to Erik. The avalanche had been triggered.

"Belle? Is she the one who came down here with you when... that night?"

Katherine willed her voice steady, or at least as steady as she could render it. "Belle's very sick," she choked. "She's... she's... dying," Katherine sputtered. "Her mother said the doctor didn't know what was wrong. She's hopelessly and completely lost!" she cried. The doctor was obviously the work of the Vicomte, as Belle's parents could never afford a doctor.

Erik was taken aback by this sudden show of emotion. Katherine was usually so calm and collected, baring the angry outburst she exulted when Erik confronted her after her long absence. Worse yet, he had no idea how to comfort the crying woman. He hadn't much experience in that area.

Something tugged at his heartstrings as he watched her. An emotion welled up inside of him that he'd never felt before, indeed, the name of it escaped him. But he was suddenly prepared to do anything for Katherine. He would go to the ends of the earth to make her happy again. The only thing he could think to do was to heal poor Belle himself. He stood, making a spur of the moment decision. He grabbed a small, leather valise off of a chair in a corner. This particular valise was full of vials of herbal extracts and powders.

Katherine, who was turned around choking on her own sobs, was unaware of this.

Katherine was shocked when Erik told her what he was going to do.

"When did you study medicine?" she asked.

Erik closed his eyes at the memory. "Living with gypsies did have its benefits," was all he said. Katherine didn't press. "But I must see her, or else we run the risk of her dying from the cure before the sickness."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Katherine asked, suddenly lively and dry faced again.

Erik hesitated. He didn't think everything out. The first and most difficult hurdle was getting into the house. Without a mask, the prospect of his entry to the house was crushed. He was sure no one in their right minds would allow him into their house of their own volition. The second problem was explaining how Katherine just suddenly came upon a doctor who agreed to help for nothing.

"There are a few flaws in the plan," Erik said carefully.

"We can think of something on the way!" Katherine cried. "Every second is a second closer to... We have to go!"

Erik grabbed a cloak and draped a generous portion of it over the right side of his face. Katherine was right. Time was precious and they were wasting it.

Raoul blinked hard in the unexpected flood of daylight and rubbed the awful kink in his neck. His back ached terribly as he sat upright on the bench and attempted to work out the stiffness.

"Oh, pardon me, monsieur, I didn't mean to wake you. I was not aware that you had spent the night at the piano."

Leprit, the footman, had just entered the room to draw the drapes, and was somewhat startled by the presence of his waking master.

"Shall I have your breakfast brought now?" he offered.

"No, I couldn't eat anything."

Raoul was too restless to sit down to a morning meal. He had no trouble remembering what had left him so distracted as to fall asleep in such an awkward position.

Belle. Belle was sick, was _dying_, and nothing could be done about it.

Cursing his ability to even fall asleep in the first place, Raoul shouldered his coat and once again sought comfort in the bustling atmosphere of the Parisian streets.

It wasn't long before he realized that he was nearing the Durands. Raoul hadn't intended to come this way, but his feet were taking him there, nonetheless. He was resigned to his fate, and happy to acquiesce, until he spied the tall, cloaked figure treading only two steps behind Katherine.

Mixed emotions of rage and confusion boiled up within him. Wasn't it enough that Erik had tried to kill him and frightened Christine into ending their betrothal? How far could one man go to exact revenge on another? And where was his sword when he really needed it?

Without pausing to consider the consequences, Raoul had Erik pinned against the wall with his hand at his throat before you could say, 'opera ghost.' Raoul knew he was no match for the man without his weapon, but if too much attention was drawn towards the scene, there was no doubt whose side the general passerby would take.

"What are you doing here!?" Raoul demanded, incensed to the point of blurred judgment. "Why are you walking this way? As if..." he turned a wondering glance to Katherine who was momentarily paralyzed with shock, "As if you're leading him to Belle's home?"

"Because I am." Katherine recovered quickly and tried to pacify the enraged Vicomte. "He can help her. He has a cure."

There was no reply. Heated fury continued to course through Raoul's veins.

"Do you really think I'd bring him to Belle if I thought he was going to make her worse?"

Raoul weighed the possible risks in his mind. Every moment wasted was pure agony to Katherine.

"She's already dying," she murmured, "What do you have to lose by trusting him?"

Raoul noted that the man in his grasp made no attempt to fight back, and ever so slowly, he released his hold. "I'm coming with you, then."

Raoul kept his eyes fixed on Erik and tried to suppress the frightening mental image of his own, lifeless body being found by strangers in some dark alley.

"If I feel that you're threatening Belle or her family in any way, I will not hesitate to tell the police _exactly_ where you are." Realizing that threats would be least likely to dissuade Erik from any harmful intentions, he added more collectedly, "Otherwise... you're secret's safe with me… for the moment."

"Since you're coming," Katherine said, "Could you tell the Durands that you've hired him as a special apothecary or something? It will give him more credibility than if I brought him myself."

"I could be recognized. Belle's parents might suspect..."

"No," Katherine reassured him. "All the stories are about monsters, remember? And with Raoul vouching for you, they'll never suspect a thing."

Marie looked quizzically at the small crowd outside her door.

Raoul cleared his throat, "I've found someone who may be able to help Belle."

"Bring him in," Albert hoarsely commanded from within.

Trembling with new hope, Marie brought them all inside, paying special attention to the stranger in the cloak.

"Please, take off your cloak and come nearer to the fire."

Before Erik could protest, Mme. Durand had removed the warm cloak and wrap, and the only thing shielding his face from the entire household.

Erik grew unnaturally still. It was only a matter of seconds before the screaming started, or the shouting, and perhaps only a minute before he would be thrown out.

"There was an accident at a hospital years ago. An unstable patient got loose in a storage room and---" Raoul started to explain. Katherine was impressed by his quick thinking.

Although Marie's face showed signs of curiosity, Erik sensed no repulsion or fear from the woman or her husband.

"Never mind that," Marie cut him off, "You think you can help our Belle?"

Erik was shocked. For perhaps the third time in his life he wasn't turned away because of his face. Had he miscalculated his assumptions? "Yes, but I shall have to see her. To be sure what I have in mind will be effective," Erik said. "There are certain instances where the cure can do more damage than the disease, if the disease is misdiagnosed,"

Marie nodded and moved toward her daughter, "She's here. The doctor's given up on her, so if there's anything you can do..."

Erik stooped to reach Belle, keeping a safe distance so as not to startle or frighten her by his sudden appearance. Belle moaned and turned at the touch on her shoulder. Her eyes opened a little and she smiled. She didn't scream, swoon, or even draw back in fear, but smiled. These Durands certainly were strange people, but Erik liked them.

"You came out," she murmured listlessly. "It's easy to get lost in the dark, isn't it? Especially when there are so many levers."

"What is she saying?" Marie asked.

"She's delirious," Erik said. "_She_ doesn't know what she's saying."

Raoul watched these goings on breathlessly, his attention absorbed by every movement Erik made.

"What's wrong?" Marie questioned him. "You have no faith in your friend?"

Raoul could have laughed at the irony, were it not for the present circumstances. At Marie's words, he attempted to hide his worry. "No, it isn't that. I'm sure he knows the risks."

After several minutes, Erik nodded his head. Without bothering to explain the gesture, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small vial of azure liquid. "Extract of the Halrigae plant," he explained. "The only plant that grows underground, found in the sub-zero temperatures of Northern Russia. Completely effective for the sort of illness that your daughter is stricken with," Erik did not see the need to tell the girl's mother, Katherine, or the Vicomte de Chagny for that matter, that Halrigae extract was extremely poisonous and only worked so well because it killed everything, including the patient. Erik pulled out a second vial, this one swirling with orange. "Give this to her three days after she takes the Halrigae. I cannot impart to you how absolutely... necessary this bottle of orange liquid is to Belle's survival." It was the antidote.

"I will not forget. Three days,"

"It will get worse before it gets better," Erik warned. "Much worse. She will begin to convulse about three hours after she swallows the Halrigae. Her fingernails will blacken, and blood vessels will start to burst in her arms and legs, giving her the look of being perpetually bruised. Her eyes will begin to pale out. She will cry out for water, but you must not under any circumstances give her any. Do you understand? It will kill her.

"The convulsions and the thirst will only last for twenty four hours, at which time she will slip into a sort of dormant sleep. At this time, you may give her water. It will no longer hurt her. She will burn with a fever beyond anything you could imagine. Her skin will flush red, and her eyes will twitch under their lids. Her breathing and heartbeat will slow. I will not lie. At that point, she will be only inches away from death. Inches. After the three days are up, give her the orange liquid and her fever will drop, and she will wake up from her sleep as if she had never been ill. Again, it is absolutely _imperative_ that you give her the orange vial on the third day."

The room was silent.

"Shall I give her the Halrigae now?" Erik asked.

Madame Durand nodded, slightly horror struck.

"You have an unpleasant night ahead of you," he said, uncorking the bottle and pouring it into Belle's mouth. She swallowed instinctively.

Erik rose from the floor and set the orange liquid on the mantle. Marie's eyes glistened with tears, and without warning, she embraced Erik and thanked him fervently. Katherine winced in apprehension, but Erik was caught off guard and far too stunned to react. He'd just poisoned the woman's daughter and practically told her as much. Yet here she was...

Perhaps she hadn't understood.

"That vial on the mantle..."

"Yes, I understand. I won't lose, or forget it. You can be sure of that."

"I'll see you two out," Raoul said to Erik and Katherine.

Madame Durand looked intrigued.

"Dr. de L'enfant promised to show me his plant collection," Katherine said by way of explanation.

"Three days of suffering," Raoul muttered darkly once safely outside of the Durand's house.

"Medicine isn't magic," Erik said frigidly. "There isn't a book of spells, or a magic wand you can wave. Sacrifices must be made."

"If I catch even a whiff of foul play... if I think for even a second that you have lied to us all to hurt Belle..."

"Do you think I would sink so low to exact revenge on you?"

"I don't know what you would do," Raoul hissed.

Katherine sighed and didn't resist the urge to roll her eyes a little. She shot a warning glance at Raoul whose arms were crossed in consternation.

"There are much easier ways for me to have my revenge," Erik stated coolly, almost exultantly. "Besides, how was I to know you were in love with the girl?" he scoffed in disdain, "You nobles are all the same. In love for a day, and out of it by the next morning. Is your little passion for Christine over already? Or are you not satisfied until you've won them all?"

Raoul's hand fingered his waist in search for his weapon. Bitterly, he clenched his teeth to stop the oath about to escape his lips. "You speak of matters you know nothing about! _You_ chased her away, and she begged me not to follow!"

"As if that would deter--"  
"Stop it, both of you!" Katherine exclaimed, feeling much like a mother trying to solve a spat between two squabbling children. "This has nothing to do with... Wait," she paused. "Follow her where?"

Raoul exhaled slowly, "She's gone to England with Philippe, but it was none of my doing. I haven't even seen her since... since the last time we all saw her."

Katherine took a moment to let this register. "But if she's gone with Philippe, that means you... she..." Raoul's face told her the rest.

"I'm sure it'll soon be the talk of the town," he muttered.

As sorry as she felt for the Vicomte, Katherine couldn't help but think of what this meant for Belle. Although she'd picked the absolute worst time to be deathly ill.

Lingering in the thought that they now shared a similar pain, Raoul's animosity towards Erik began to subside a little. "I know you probably wish you would have finished the job in the lair, and I don't know why I care what you think of me, but I'm neither fickle, nor unfaithful," he said. "You can't blame me for clinging to the last bit of hope I have left for happiness. I do know the dangers you risked in coming here today, and for Belle's sake, I thank you.

"If this doesn't kill her..." Raoul trailed off and looked up at the door before continuing, "She won't be the only one I'll feel indebted to."

Raoul let his words sink in a little before nodding to Katherine and bidding her a good day. He left without another word, leaving Erik and Katherine alone on a street full of strangers.

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The irony of the situation didn't escape Erik. Christine, who was willing to sacrifice the rest of her life so that the Vicomte would continue to live, left the Vicomte high and dry to flee to England with the man's brother. _Just as well,_ Erik thought. _I'll bet that fool's never been denied anything in his entire life. _Still, he couldn't help but be slightly dismayed at the fact that he'd chased the poor girl off of the continent. If there had been any chance before of winning back his angel, it was too late now. She was gone, and it was all his fault. It seemed that whenever something terrible happened to him, it was always his fault. He always tried to push things off onto other sources, blaming his misfortune on his deformity, other people's faults or stupidity, but he always knew deep down in his heart that he had only himself to blame. The emotion that was coursing through him now was new to him. The steady rhythm of his heart seemed to pound out _could have done, should have done, could have said, should have said._ Surely he'd never felt it before. He raked his brain, trying to think of the name that went with this feeling of self-reproach. Then he had it. It was remorse.

Never in his thirty five years had he ever felt remorse for anything. It wasn't in his nature. Anything he'd ever done, he'd done because it was what he saw as a necessary course of action. Why should he feel remorse for something that needed to be done? That was unavoidable? At least, he'd thought them unavoidable at the time. Later he'd always think of something he could have done differently, but certainly he'd never been repentant for what he _did_ do.

Another new emotion was welling up inside of him. This one he knew. Pity. He'd seen it in Madame Giry's eyes. He'd seen it in Christine's eyes, too. Pity was something he never thought he'd feel towards another living being as long as he lived. It was surprising that this new emotion should come directed at the man he worked so hard to eliminate. The Vicomte de Chagny. Despite his personal animosity with the Vicomte, he couldn't help but feel pity. After all, they now shared the same misery. The woman they'd both loved had been chased away by him. _Only,_ Erik thought bitterly, _He's found a replacement. His heart will mend. Mine never will. I will be alone forever. Well,_ he looked at Katherine. _Not completely alone. But for how long? _'As long as you need me,' she'd once said. Erik doubted that. Someday soon, no doubt, a handsome young man would whisk her away and he'd be all alone again. This time indefinitely.

As happy as Katherine was for Belle and her newly opened doors, worry started to bring down her mood. Erik hadn't made a sound since they'd started walking in the general direction of the Opera Populaire. Not that he was a particularly verbal person in the first place, but after the news they'd just heard, Katherine was sure the silence was more than just Erik's laconic nature. She didn't want to press, though, so they walked the rest of the way in a hush.

"You did a good thing today," Katherine said once they were back in the lair. Erik was working on his mask again, this time adding the finishing touches. Katherine was unsure what to feel about this. It didn't matter to her whether or not he was wearing a mask, but it was something Erik felt like he needed. Who was she to intervene?

"Perhaps ultimately, but look at what she has to go through. And her mother and father, they have to watch it, helpless. What good does that make? Any _good_ I've ever tried to do has always been paved with disaster," he said bitterly.

Katherine sighed, knowing he wasn't just talking about Belle. Christine was in there somewhere, too. And probably a thousand other situations from Erik's past that Katherine knew nothing about. "You think too much. You belittle your acts of goodness by outweighing them with the unpleasant things you had to do to achieve them. You saved her life. Five people will be grateful to you for the rest of their lives because of it.

"Belle would have died had you not intervened. Do you think that three days of watching her suffer so she can live could ever match up to a lifetime of sadness over her death? The Durands already lost one child, and they would have lost another. Three days are nothing, Erik. Nothing," Katherine's tone dripped with raw emotion. "I was seven years old when I met Belle. She was only five, but you wouldn't have known it. She was different from the other children her age. Smarter, more mature. We'd played for months before I found out. I've known her for fourteen years, Erik. I can scarce remember a time before she was my friend. We've been through everything imaginable together. It pains me to even think about my life without her in it, and you worry yourself over three days,"

Katherine's emotion and eloquence surprised him. "I suppose you're right,"

An hour or two passed in silence. Katherine occupied herself by alphabetizing Erik's compositions. It was no easy feat, as they were numerous. She was kicking herself for just neatly stacking them on a table next to the organ that day she helped him clean. Everything was out of order.

By the time Katherine was done, everything was stacked nicely on top of the table from A to Z.

Katherine stood up, stretching. She'd been seated on the organ bench for what felt like days.

When she turned around, she saw that Erik was watching her. She also saw that the right side of his face was covered with a white mask. Erik seemed to be searching her eyes for something. Katherine couldn't imagine what. Whatever it was, he either found it or he didn't, because he turned his gaze to the table next to the organ.

"Thank you," he said. "But you didn't have to do that,"

"It wasn't any problem at all. My father has too short of an attention span to set the sales slips in order, so I've always done it for him,"

"Your father sounds like an interesting sort of man," Erik said.

"You could say that. Eccentric, I think, is more accurate. Oh, the stories I could tell," Katherine chuckled. "He gets himself into more trouble... I've never been able to understand how he manages to get himself back home in one piece. Especially now. My mother used to go with him, but that was before she... left,"

"You and him must be close,"

"Terribly. Even before my mother... left we were inseparable. At least until he went away. He hates leaving, always has, but especially now that Mother's gone. It tears him apart,"

"Why does he go, then?"

Katherine sighed. "He's convinced that he's going to find his fortune out there. He always says that he dreams of leaving me with more than a little shop,"

"And who runs this little shop while he's away?" Erik asked.

"No one. He does business while he's abroad and whatever money he earns goes toward the extension of his trip and the purchase of more things to sell, though I suspect he's stowed away on several ships several times when he was hard pressed for money. What money he makes while he's in Paris and running the shop stays here for me to live off of while he's gone,"

"Sounds as if he would make more of a name for himself if he would stay in Paris. How can he expect to profit off of anything if he spends everything he earns?"

"You look at it from a very businesslike point of view. My father is a man who lives on dreams. When he has no more dreams, he will have no more life, or at least that's the way I've always seen it. I suppose that I could, in fact I know I could, convince him to keep shop in Paris permanently, but who am I to take his dream away?"

"It's foolish to live on dreams. He can't support you on dreams," Erik commented.

Katherine flared up immediately. "Don't call my father a fool," she growled.

"I _didn't call_ your father a fool," Erik spat. "I was merely saying that it was foolish to--"

"It's the same thing!" Katherine snarled. "My father does what he thinks is right! What more would you expect?"

"A little ambition, maybe? He leaves you living hand to mouth all because he _dreams_ of striking it rich out there in the big wide world, and here you are defending him!"

"He does _not_ leave me living hand to mouth! I have never in my life been hungry! I have never wanted for anything!"

"Don't think I haven't noticed that every gown you've ever worn has been mended several times, and is threadbare at the seams,"

"When did it become your business how I clothe myself?" Katherine roared. "I don't recall asking your opinion on my wardrobe!"

"Well pardon me for making a simple observation! Pardon me for not thinking it fitting that a man leave his daughter in rags!"

"Rags?! I think not! Not everyone can afford new clothes all the time. Not everyone is just handed twenty thousand Francs for simply _existing_,"

Erik's eyes narrowed. "You're father's out there somewhere on his own going God knows where and doing God knows what with God knows who, and you have the audacity to stand here and insult my choice of income source?"

"Are you insinuating that my father is some sort of male trollop?!"

"It's possible, isn't it? You aren't with him when he goes on those trips. And maybe your mother had a better reason for leaving than the one she gave,"

"You are vile, incorrigible man!" Katherine thundered. She turned on her heel and stalked off in the general direction of the boat.

"As if no one's ever called me that before!"

Katherine was fuming. Her face was hot with fury as she stormed down the streets of Paris. The sky was darkening rapidly. If Katherine weren't so mad, she'd probably remember that she was terrified of walking home in the dark after what happened the other night, but her mind was otherwise occupied. _The nerve of that man!_ she thought. _How dare he say anything against my father. How dare he imply that he's a fornicator? How dare he insult my father's care taking abilities!_ So what if her clothes were slightly old? Didn't she have a home? Wasn't she well fed? Didn't her father love her? It was no fault of his that he sometimes forgot to add in the necessities like clothing. Anyone who knew her father would say that he always had his head in the clouds. It was just his nature.

Katherine looked down at the skirt of her gown. So what if the seams were threadbare? At least they held up.

_Idiot!_ Erik thought as he paced around the lair. _You've done it again. Gone and chased away another person. When will you learn?_ Erik considered going after her and apologizing, but her words rung in his head. 'You are vile, incorrigible man!'

"Damned if I don't know it," he said aloud. "I've chased you away, haven't I? It's the vilest thing I could have done,"

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

A kind of hushed flurry took hold of Mme. Durand as she used what little time she had to prepare for the next seventy two hours of hell. The dishes were washed and put away, a dress was mended, and the house was generally set in order by five 'o clock. From experience, Marie knew that when a dear one was ill, a disorderly house was the last thing you needed on your mind.

The only things that were not cleared away were Belle's painting tools and canvases. Marie told herself that Belle would put them away when she was well. The girl had a system of cluttered organization that Marie often wished she could break her of, but today she was glad of it. It was one of those quirks that was so decidedly Belle's, that Marie wanted the mess left there as a reminder that she had been healthy, and a sign of faith that she would, indeed, be strong and healthy again.

When Albert had finished his dinner, there was nothing left for Marie to do but wait. Wait for the convulsions, the fever, and the constant delirium. Wait for the time when she would have to helplessly watch her only daughter suffer a whole host of awful things. It could hardly be imagined that Belle could get any worse than she was at present, but so it would have to be in order for her to recover.

Marie was unnerved by the sudden sound of knocking. Whoever was there couldn't have picked a worse time to come calling if they tried, Marie mused distractedly as she opened the door.  
It was the Vicomte again.

"Would it be alright if..." Raoul wasn't ready with an excuse this time. "I thought, perhaps..."

"There is no need to make excuses for your presence." Marie said. She didn't seem surprised by his return. "I know you take interest in my daughter's well being, and that is enough."

"I'm afraid I didn't bring anything but my two hands and a desire to be of assistance," he said once past the threshold. "But..."

He was interrupted by a loud thud coming from the general direction of Belle's couch. Mme. Durand and the Vicomte rushed to the scene where Belle now lay on the floor, shaking violently.

With their combined efforts, they managed to lift her back up, while Marie sat on the couch and held her daughter. Belle already looked more like a corpse than a living being.

'It's begun."

Belle's two caretakers knew no time except what was measured by her symptoms. The hours were like days while Belle shook and sobbed. It was difficult to discern whether she understood anything happening around her, as she spoke but one word during the first twenty-four hours: _Water_. Her dehydration allowed no tears, but her gasping and heaving was very much like crying when she was denied the drink so desperately begged for.

Raoul was distraught. He held Belle's hand in a vain attempt to stop the shaking, but it was useless.

The next torment became apparent when Belle suddenly screamed out and clutched her leg. Marie was exceedingly puzzled until Raoul noted the purple splotches that were just beginning to form on her arms. They were no doubt the cause of similar discoloration and pain in her lower limbs.

Still, one issue did not erase the other, and the spasms went on and on. Sometimes a succession of rapid jolts, or others merely a constant shiver, they attacked Belle all through the night and the next morning.

Raoul was the very picture of sympathy and tenderness. Anything Mme. Durand wanted for Belle was brought without question. Tirelessly, he went in search of random articles that were intended to soothe her, always returning to the small ottoman near her couch, waiting with Marie for the nightmare to end.

Albert emerged from the back of the house only twice to learn what he could. He had nothing to say about Raoul's bedside vigil, and directed all his concerns to Marie. The man preferred to stay well out of the drama, though he was not apathetic in the least.

Almost a full day after Belle had first begun to convulse and bruise, she abruptly stopped shaking and fell almost completely still. Raoul couldn't say what was worse; her active outbursts of pain, or this deathly pallor. Raoul and Marie took turns resting and using a small mirror to ensure one another that Belle still breathed by catching her cloudy puffs of breath on the glass surface.

At one point, Marie had Raoul hold Belle up so that she could braid the girl's hair away from her heated face. She gently brushed out the tangles from her long hair; the curls that on closer inspection were so much softer than Christine's. Raoul was almost sorry to see her smooth them out with the brush and bind them up in three twisted lengths. In the meantime, Marie shared stories of miraculous recoveries she'd heard of in order to lift their spirits. Belle was laid gently back down, and Marie carefully smoothed her linen night dress out around her. Almost as one prepares a body for burial. Raoul hated himself for allowing such a thought to enter his mind.

Raoul tried so hard to stay awake; the slightest motion from Belle would be enough to let him rest without anxiety, he thought, but her breathing remained as steady as it was faint. His sleep deprived body, however, was drained enough to force the Vicomte into an unwilling doze.

A gentle shake of the shoulders was all it took to bring him back out of it. Raoul jolted from his seat towards Belle, but Marie told him to stay where he was.

"She's fine. I just gave her some water."

Raoul breathed a bit easier and settled onto the footstool.

"You should go home and get a proper rest," Marie urged him. "It's unlikely we can do anything more for her until it's time to use the orange medicine."

Raoul shook his head. "I couldn't get a moment's peace in my house. Every time the clock chimed, I thought of how it was a half hour closer to this. I'd like to believe that I'm doing some good just by being here for her." He laid his against the wall and added, "Unless I'm only a nuisance, now. Do you want me to leave?"

"No, of course not." Marie brought him a few pillows for better support. "You must eat something, though. It would hardly be acceptable for Belle to wake up and have to bury the both of us. We've neglected ourselves long enough. Not to mention, my husband is probably wondering where his dinner is."

"How long was I asleep?" Raoul asked as Marie made herself busy in the kitchen.

"A few hours, I think. You just missed Katherine."

"She was here again?"

"Yes. I don't know what Belle would do without that girl. I have seen few friendships begin so quickly and yet remain so strong. They're hardly ever apart."

"Belle is lucky to have such a friend."

Marie set a baguette down and looked at Raoul. "Don't you have such friends?"

"Consistency in friendships seems to be one thing we nobles can't buy. Well that, and consistency in love."

"Has Christine still not written?"

"Oh, she's written." Raoul hesitated to go through the agony of explaining to yet another individual how Christine had left him.

"Don't take this as a reproach, but I _have_ been wondering why you persist in staying so long. I should think you'd be hounding your brother for admittance into his home. Christine is still staying there, is she not?"

Raoul replied with only a solemn shake of the head.

"Where, then?"

"England."

In light of the situation, that word spoke volumes for Marie. There was no need for Raoul to elaborate. She brought his tea in silence and refrained from further questions.

"One more day," Marie murmured, eyes fixed on Belle. "One more day before this is all over."

That day passed and evening fell, bringing with it a tension one could feel in the air. As the time drew near to give Belle the cure, Marie, Raoul, and Albert gathered around her couch in anticipation of the drug's effects.

"How much longer?" Albert asked.

"Two minutes." Marie held the vial firm in her hand, ready to administer it the moment the clock's big hand touched the four.

"Her fever's already gone down," Albert remarked, his wrinkled hand clasped over Belle's.

Raoul knelt and felt her forehead, "She's awfully cold."

Marie stooped in alarm and pressed her ear against Belle's chest. Her face went white. "I can't hear her heart beat!"

Albert let Belle's hand fall; a dead weight that went limp over the side of the couch.

"Where is the mirror!?"

"It was here a moment ago."

"I had it in my hand when I brought the pillow from Belle's room. I must have set it down in there."

Raoul flew upstairs to retrieve the mirror. He turned the door knob, but it wouldn't budge.

"I can't open the door!"

"It's stuck!" Marie called from below. "Use force."

"Marie!" Albert pointed to the clock. "The time!"

Marie frantically pried the cork out of the vial and forced every last drop into Belle's mouth before clamping her lips shut for her. She tilted her head back, hoping that at least some of the liquid made its way past her throat.

"Swallow it, Belle. You _must_ swallow the medicine."

Belle didn't stir. A bit of orange drizzled from the corner of her mouth. Her head hung backward in the exact position it had fell when Marie withdrew her hand.

"She can't hear you." Albert's voice was distant, like an echo carried across the other side of the room. "It's too late."

"No! We will not lose her, too!" Marie choked on a sob and took Belle in her arms. "Belle, my darling, my sweet one... you cannot leave us." She rocked her back and forth, soaking the girl's newly stained sleeve with her tears. Albert looked away, unable to bear the sight.

Noises could be heard from upstairs, where Raoul still searched diligently for the missing mirror, but the only thing breaking the awful silence below was Marie's crying. She tightened her hold on Belle, as if she could somehow lend some of her own life to the precious body in her arms.

Time seemed to stand still. The tick of the clock was a curse now. Marie heard nothing, saw nothing, but flashes of Claire and Belle's lives, all leading to the same fate.

Albert blamed himself. He should have done something. _Anything_ to prevent this from happening again. He felt shamed by his hesitation to let the Vicomte help. He should have been the first to ask him, for Belle's sake. But it was no use dwelling on that now...

"Mama?"

Marie gasped at the unexpected sound originating from the head pressed against her shoulder.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Belle's voice had never been so clear or sweet. It was if she had never been ill. "Why am I down here?" Belle fingered her hair, confused by the neat twists it was in. She knew she wore it down to go to bed.

"You were very sick." Marie kissed her pale face repeatedly. "You were almost dead, in fact, but you've come back to us." Her voice quivered in disbelief.

"Almost dead? I had a sore throat last night, but I don't remember... why is it so dark?"

"You've had much more than a sore throat, my dear. You've been ill for three days."

"I must look a fright, then."

Albert took Belle's hand, rejoicing in the feel of her fingers closing around his knuckles. "As close as we were to losing you, the medicine could have turned you into an ape for all I care."

Belle laughed and brought life back into the house once more.

Raoul came around the corner, expecting the worst, and was stopped in his tracks by the famille picture before him. Marie and Belle's foreheads were locked together, and new tears of relief fell from Mme. Durand's eyes. Belle caressed her mother's face with one hand, and held her father's hand with the other.

So much as he longed to become a part of that picture, Raoul had no desire to disturb the serenity of it by making unnecessary additions. He tried his best to move quietly towards the door, but Belle could sense the presence of another being in the room.

"Raoul!"

She glanced from him to her parents and back at him with a keen feeling of perplexity.

Raoul barely remembered the last time they'd spoken. It seemed like ages ago, and not the few days it had really been. What he did remember was that she wasn't entirely happy with him at the time. He smiled weakly, uncertain of the clarity of her memories.

"Were you asked for?" Belle's voice had a touch of frost to it.

"No."

Belle bit her trembling lip. Her eyes were misty again, but this time she was aware of it. "Thank you," she choked out, then lost all self control and joined in her mother's sobs.

Raoul quietly took his leave, confident that normalcy would return to the Durands all in due time.

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The weeks crawled by. Katherine was, to put it quite simply, bored out of her mind. Belle was back to her old perky self, which was an immense relief to Katherine, but she wasn't always available when Katherine wanted her to be. In fact, lately she hadn't been available at all. Some sort of small crisis seemed to be gripping the Durand household. Katherine was dying with curiosity, but she knew better than to ask.

Katherine had however seen enough of Belle to tell her about her and Erik's argument. Belle, as usual, preferred to remain neutral. Her neutrality didn't bother Katherine any. Belle was a good listener and that's all that mattered.

Katherine found herself wishing that her father would come home. She was lonely, and she missed him. She hadn't seen him in at least two and a half months. Usually his trips ran half as long as that. Sometimes he would only be away for a fortnight. Katherine was worried that something had happened to him. After all, the man was magnet for trouble.

She needn't have worried, though. He came home, as he always did. Katherine was dead asleep when she heard the downstairs door bang open, and her father's familiar heavy footsteps on the floor below. Except, she thought, something was different. Almost as if he were limping. She also heard several other sets of footsteps, and a chorus of voices conversing. Katherine waited until the footsteps and the voices were gone, then slid out of bed, wrapping herself in a dressing robe to shield her from the cold. She crept down the stairs and peeked her head out from around the corner to make sure everyone was gone.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, running to him and embracing him when she saw that the coast was clear. "Where have you been for so long?" she asked.

"My dear, my dear!" he cried. "My dear, I've finally done it!"

"Done what, Papa?" she asked, confused.

Katherine's father gestured towards a large fine chest that was sitting on the floor. "Can you guess what's inside?" asked.

"Merchandise?" she guessed.

"No, my dear, no! We'll never have to open up this dusty old shop ever again!"

"Papa, what are you talking about?" Katherine giggled.

Her father fished a key out of his pocket and opened the trunk. He swung the lid open with a flourish, and Katherine was left standing, breathless and gaping. The chest was packed from top to bottom and from side to side with gleaming gold bars. Katherine couldn't speak. She tried to form words but her mind drew a blank.

Her father was laughing. "Isn't it wonderful? I couldn't carry it back here myself, but luckily some of the ship's crew offered to assist me, since I'm such a frequent passenger, that is." he laughed again.

"That is, I was a frequent passenger. I'm never leaving this house again, I can promise you that."

"Papa," Katherine finally found her voice. "Where in the world did you get this?"

"It was the most miraculous thing. Simply miraculous. I was in Italy, somewhere in the Vatican City, I believe. Actually, I think I was in St. Peter's Square. Anyway, some mad, raving old man runs up to me and all but throws this old tattered book at me and then runs off. So I looked at the book curiously. After all, odd books are my area of expertise. It looked like it had once been very handsome indeed, for there were still some flecks on the edges where the gilt used to be, and the cover was probably once very fine leather. It was written in some strange language, probably a code. I didn't understand a word of it. Anyway, a bishop came shooting from across the square towards me and all but demanded to see the book. At least I think that's what he said, because he said it in Italian. I know he said something about a book. So anyway, I told him quite frankly that it was _my_ book, since it was thrown at me and not him, and that such rudeness was unbecoming of a man of his station..."

"Papa!" Katherine exclaimed, but let him continue.

"Oh, he didn't understand me. French and Italian are two very different languages, you know. Anyway, he asked again, this time with a nicer tone, and I let him see it. He got very excited and all but dragged me into the Apostolic Palace, and before I know it I'm standing before Pope Pius IX himself, speaking with him through a translator. Turns out that the book was some sort of important relic that was stolen from the Vatican several hundred years ago, and they offered me a huge sum of money for it and I accepted."

"Don't you wonder what was so special about that book?" Katherine asked, astounded that some old tattered book could be worth a whole chest of gold.

"Frankly? No. My dear, your future's in this chest." he took her hands in his and began a merry waltz around the shop area. His steps were slow and careful, but Katherine couldn't help but notice a heavy gimp in his right leg. "You'll have gowns of silk and velvet, not these threadbare tattered things you've been wearing. You'll catch a fine husband and you'll live happily ever after in a huge house in the country with servants to do your bidding and a fine carriage to take you where ever you want to go."

"But you'll be there with me, papa. We'll both have those things." Katherine reminded him.

"Yes, of course."

"We'll have a library that's two levels high, and rooms upon rooms filled with sculptures and paintings... We can travel where ever we want just because we can, and you'll never have to barter or haggle with anyone for anything. We can go riding our beautiful horses every day over our expansive yard, and nothing will ever spoil our happiness."

Her father sighed, letting go of her and hobbling over to a chair.

"What's wrong, Papa?" Katherine asked.

"It's nothing my dear."

"What happened to your leg?"

"Nothing, nothing. Some brigand on the ship somehow found out about the gold, and we had a scuffle. Nothing more than that." he said.

Katherine looked at him oddly and walked over to where he sat. "Papa, are you alright?"

"Yes, my dear." he said, reaching up and patting her cheek. "I am just very...tired." he said.

"Well, best be off to bed with you, then. Why, it must be two in the morning!"

"Yes, yes. Bed sounds lovely." He stood up and kissed Katherine warmly on the cheek. "I love you, ma fille. Always remember that. Always."

"I will, Papa." Katherine said. She thought that he was acting strangely, but she shrugged it off, attributing it to the stress of his extended trip and the vast amount of riches that sat in a chest in the middle of the floor.

Katherine's father began to ascend the staircase. He was hobbling slowly, his right leg hindering his progress. He stopped and turned to look at her. "Goodnight, my dear." he said.

"Goodnight, Papa." Katherine replied.

Katherine awoke the next day, smiling and merry. The sky outside of her window was dull and gray, but she wouldn't have known, she was so joyful that the room seemed full of sunlight. She hummed gaily as she dressed for the day. She decided that she would prepare a huge breakfast for her father to welcome him home and to celebrate. She traipsed down the hall jovially and slid into the small kitchen. She was surprised to see that her father wasn't there. He usually spent every morning in the kitchen drinking tea and thumbing through the newspaper or some thick, voluminous tome. Katherine shrugged. She figured that he was catching up on all of the sleep that he'd sacrificed on his trip. He tended to do that from time to time.

Katherine slaved away for several hours preparing the largest breakfast that kitchen had ever seen. She laid everything out on the table that would fit.

Her father still hadn't risen. It was very unlike him to sleep so late, so Katherine began to worry that perhaps he'd taken ill. _He was acting oddly last night._ she thought.

She tiptoed down the hallway and paused outside of her father's room. She swung the door inward and took a step inside. He was still sleeping. Katherine giggled.

"Oh, Papa! I've prepared a wonderful breakfast for myself but it's far too big for me to eat all by myself. Whatever shall I do?" she asked.

There was no answer.

"Come on, Papa, wake up!" she laughed. "It's at least noon. You wouldn't want to sleep the day away, would you?" she strode across the room and came to stand next to her father's bed.

She looked down at his face and a terror like she'd never known swept over her. Her father was motionless. Not even a steady rise and fall of his chest could be seen. His face was ghastly white and tinged slightly blue. Katherine tried to remain calm. "Papa..." she said, reaching out and patting him on the cheek. His skin was icy cold. "Papa." She said again, this time unable to bite back her emotions. She felt warm tears pricking the back of her eyes, threatening to spill over any second. "Papa, please wake up. There's breakfast for you in the kitchen. Please!" She cried, throwing the coverlet off into the floor. Her eye caught on his right leg. There was a long, deep gash in his calf. There was about a hands width of blue and green discoloration around it. Infected.

"C-come on, Papa. We have to get a... get a doctor to see about that gash."

She sunk to her knees on the floor, grabbing his cold hand. "Papa, please!" she cried. The tears blurred her vision. Colors swam about her. She couldn't see anything clearly. She couldn't think clearly. She held onto his hand as if it were the only thing tying her to reality. She wasn't aware of anything else in the world except the cold, motionless hand in hers.

Katherine had no clear memory of leaving her father's room, or even of leaving the house, but she must have done it, for the next thing she became aware of was the pounding of her feet on the pavement carrying her in the direction of the Opera Populaire. Her vision was still blurred with tears. She felt like her heart was snapping in two and that there was nothing in the world that could ever put it back together again.

Suddenly Katherine became aware that she was shivering. Her teeth were chattering and her fingers were numb. An icy rain was falling, and Katherine was soaked to the bone, however she felt nothing. She was wrapped in blanket of misery and the world around her seemed unreal.

The descent down to the catacombs was a difficult one. Katherine was shaking so hard, both from the cold and from the overwhelming sense of grief that she was continuously slipping on the rocks and scraping her hands trying to keep from falling.

She stopped at the edge of the lake, looking out over the dark, glassy surface. The boat, luckily, was there. Silently, she crawled into it and pushed off from the shore, gliding silently through the water.  
Erik was nowhere to be seen on the other side of the lake. Katherine was alone. Completely alone. She sat down on a rock overlooking the lake and sobbed.

When Erik returned to the lake, the boat was gone. Erik swore. He turned around and circled through several more well hidden passages that lead to the mirror passage that he escaped through the night that his hopes of winning Christine were shattered.

He stepped into the lair, expecting to find a gendarme or at the very least a very stupid snoop, but what he saw startled him. A very frail looking Katherine sat, dripping and shivering, on a rock overlooking the lake. Her head was buried in her hands, and she seemed to be sobbing uncontrollably. Erik approached slowly, like one would approach a wounded animal. Indeed, Erik thought that Katherine looked much like a wounded animal.

"Katherine." he said.

Katherine looked up. Her face was tear-streaked and pale, though her eyes were very, very red. She didn't speak.

Erik crouched down next to Katherine so that he wasn't towering over her.

"What's the matter?" he asked gently. He hated seeing her so... broken. The last time he'd seen her she was full of fire and passionate fury. True, that fury was directed at him, but he found himself thinking that he'd trade anything in the world to see that fury again. Anything was better than this.

Katherine was shivering uncontrollably, now. The hand the held Erik's quivered with such intensity that Erik's arm began to shake along with it. With his free hand he swung his cloak off and hung it over Katherine's shoulders in an attempt to warm the girl up.

The cloak didn't help one bit, for she continued to shake and shiver. Erik was starting to worry that the cold, wet girl would take ill. Would that he could warm her up somehow. Would that he could comfort her in some small way. He hated seeing her so wretchedly sad.

Katherine turned a fraction of an inch towards Erik. She was grateful that he was there, and grateful that he was silent.

"My father is dead." Katherine whispered. A violent tremor past through her at the word dead. That was the first time she'd said it outright. She'd been careful to not even think it, lest everything seem too real to her. Now the enormity of everything crashed down on her. Her feeling of loneliness was now accompanied by hopelessness. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she leaned sideways and rested her head against Erik's chest. He was warm against her frigid skin.

Erik froze for a moment, and then, slowly, wrapped his arms around her and held her close.  
With Erik's arms around her, Katherine let the tears flow freely. She was pouring out her whole heart and soul to him, yet she wasn't saying a word. With Erik's arms around her, she almost felt like everything was going to be okay. Almost.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Katherine wasn't sure how long she'd stayed down in the lair with Erik, but by the time she emerged it was almost dark, and her hair and gown were almost completely dry. She hadn't wanted to leave, but Erik had insisted that it would be best if she left to face the world. She knew he was right. Things had to be done. She'd just ran off and left her father in the house... she blinked the thought away. There was no more time for crying. She was solemn and dry eyed as she plotted her course to the Durand's house.

Belle opened the door almost as soon as Katherine knocked.

"Katherine!" Belle cried happily. "It seems like ages since I've last seen you! ...What's the matter?"

Katherine was sure she looked a dreadful mess by the way Belle was looking at her.

It took Katherine a minute or so to compose herself enough to say the four words that she would probably be repeating over and over again for the next twenty four hours. "My father is dead."

Belle was struck speechless for an instant. A hollow chill crept over her and she trembled slightly.

"Dead?" she repeated when the need to say something became dire. "How can this be? My illness wasn't contagious, was it? Perhaps he caught it from you and didn't realize..."

"He was shot some time on his return journey. The wound got infected." Katherine said, her voice solid. She _wouldn't_ cry again.

Belle's eyes brimmed over and she embraced her friend, pulling her past the threshold of the little house. "Oh, dear Katherine," she wept quietly on her shoulder, taking care not to cry aloud lest it tempt Katherine to do the same. "You know my parents and I will do anything we can."

Belle was all too familiar with the overwhelming burdens one must carry after a death. She knew that in spite of her wish to do naught but grieve, Katherine would be forced to worry over all the details of funeral arrangements and countless other things that would not take care of themselves. She assured Katherine that she had friends enough to settle these issues, and for now her only duty was to stay a while and take what comfort she could.

Belle also considered Katherine's relatives. Self righteous as they were, she supposed they had a right to know about Julien's death.

"Does anyone else know?" she questioned, not at all expecting an affirmative answer.

Katherine nodded. "Erik knows. I didn't mean to go to him... I was... holding my father's hand and the next thing I knew I was halfway to the opera house..."

"Of course," Belle replied softly. She was only a little hurt that her dearest friend chose to come to her second when they used to confide in each other first for everything. What Belle hadn't quite realized was that she was doing the exact same thing herself.

It wasn't difficult to persuade Katherine to stay a few hours and leave her troubles at the door. She and Belle sat together, abandoning the salty liquid of tears for a much more comforting beverage of warm tea. When Katherine finally left, Belle was confident that it was in a far better frame of mind than before.

Upon deciding to make a long overdue social call, Belle stopped for a bit to study her reflection in the only mirror the Durands owned. She tried very hard to imagine herself being as terrifyingly ill as her parents had told her she was, but the girl staring back at her looked perfectly healthy.

Belle awoke from her spar with death, bearing no lingering symptoms except that she was very hungry and somewhat lighter from lack of nourishment. Now, just after a warm bath and a full meal, Belle had trouble seeing that she was ever so sick. Her almond eyes had regained all their perception and life, and her skin was a normal shade of soft peach.

Still staring into the glass, Belle wished she was prettier. She knew her nose was too small and her cheeks undefined. Even her chin was barely distinguished from the rest of her features. She consoled herself with the thought that her ears, at least, were small like her nose. And her eyebrows grew in a proper arch. Not understanding just how right Katherine was when she said that sadness didn't suit her, Belle failed to see how a smile could easily help define her cheeks, show the shapely curve of her lips, and expose a pretty set of teeth. Though being her own greatest critic, Belle probably would have mourned her slight overbite and larger front teeth, as well.

Remembering her previous designs, Belle shrugged away her dissatisfaction and walked out the door.

A door clicked, Leprit's nasal drone uttered a brief greeting, footsteps told of a visitor, and Raoul abandoned his seat once he realized that Belle had come at last. Now she stood before him, smiling warmly under the dark curls brushing against the sides of her face.

"Belle!" Raoul beamed and his visitor eagerly stepped forward, clasping both his hands in her own. "You've finally set aside a few pressing appointments to come and see me."

"Don't tease," she chided, smiling. "I've come to see if my fingers still remember our lessons."

Belle was very lively, and yet Raoul felt something was not quite right. Her cheerfulness seemed to be masking some hidden burden that she did not wish exposed.

"Yes, of course. But sit a while, first."

She let him lead her to the sofa and sat down, placing her hands in her lap. Raoul, too, sat down, but instead of sitting across from her, as was his custom, he chose to sit beside her.

"You're looking very well compared to the last time I saw you. You're cheeks could use some color, but you're usually a bit pale."

"I've heard there's a remarkable story behind my recovery. Something about a Vicomte, a baffled doctor, and a strange man who had an unfortunate accident at a hospital." A smirk raised the corner of Belle's mouth as the last sentence was spoken.

"I had little to do with your recovery," Raoul replied; making an honest statement in his own eyes. "Although I would have cured you if I could."

"Of course. That's why I want to thank you. And it's a strange thought, but Katherine never would have brought Erik if you hadn't dashed everyone's hopes to pieces by bringing that doctor."

Raoul didn't know how to reply. He was halfway between apologizing and burying his head in his hands from mortification when Belle rescued him from both.

"I didn't mean it like that. I was only trying to express how you _have_ helped. It was very kind of you to watch over me the way you did. I must possess good friends to have brought _him_ out of hiding for me."

"Were you very surprised to see him?"

"See him? I don't remember seeing anyone, or hearing anything the entire time. Only my nightmares were there to keep me company, to my fevered sub consciousness."

"Then... do you remember being angry with me?"

Belle's eyes flickered with uncertainty. "How could you possibly have made me angry?"

"I had a visitor the day you were taken ill..."

"Oh, yes! Madame Folliot, I do remember that. I wasn't angry with you, I was... frustrated over some inalterable circumstances, but not at you. I was upset for only a few hours anyway, until Mama told me you seemed troubled about something. I meant to come in the morning and ask you about it, but then I got sick."

"When you failed to come back, I thought you were furious with me."

A flash of red filled her cheeks and the smile faded for a moment. "I'm sorry for losing my temper."

Raoul laughed, "That was losing your temper?" he continued to chuckle, vainly attempting to hide his amusement by clearing his throat.

"I'm... I'm sorry..." he tried to compose himself and realized it was the first time he'd laughed since receiving Christine's letter. "Of course I forgive you. Everyone loses their temper at times."

"You don't!"

"You didn't see me when I caught Erik heading towards your house."

Belle started with surprise, "Erik? You call him by his name, now? Could it be that you're learning to forgive him?"

"Believe me, I find his crimes far easier to forgive than..." Raoul trailed off, "Other..."

"Other what?"

"Never mind." Belle obviously hadn't been told anything pertaining to Christine's sudden relocation. "We were going to see if your fingers remembered."

Belle happily took possession of the piano bench while Raoul read off the titles of musical pieces for her to choose from, glad to have a change of subject for the time being.

The music could have been played well if it hadn't been for that secret dilemma pressing on Belle's mind. Her eagerness to hide it made her play too fast and distractedly. It wasn't an embarrassing performance; she was simply capable of much more.

"I'm sorry," she shook her head and looked at the music like it was a sheet of mystic drivel. "That was hardly complementary to poor Mozart."

"You're mind's somewhere else today. I've seen that look before, in..."

"In Christine? Is that what you were going to say?"

"No, I..." Raoul paused at the sight of Belle's cross, almost pained expression.

"What is it?"

"I can't bear to be near you; to have you teach me and look at me and constantly compare me to her. I am _not_ Christine and I have no intention of becoming her. I'm sorry if she won't see you, but I will not be your Christine while you wait."

This ejaculation was quite a surprise for the Vicomte. He was unaware of how often he compared the two women.

"Is that what you thought? Belle, I didn't mean to..." Raoul searched for a way to make amends for his unintentional offence. His listener stared straight at him, waiting for an explanation. She looked at him as an equal who deserved an apology, not as an impoverished maid looking upon her better. She wouldn't have dared to stare so at any other man with a title.

Her unabashed gaze showed Raoul just how comfortable he allowed her to feel in his presence. He was glad of it, despite the way it made him squirm.

"If I compare you to her, it's not to wish you away or expect her replacement. It's true that she's sweet, and charming, and has a steadier voice, perhaps, but there's a shallowness about her I never saw until... not too long ago. I don't see Christine sitting there, nor did I see her in the boat when I was rescued. You're strongest at the times you're needed most. There's a depth found in your eyes that was absent from Christine's," He moved a piece of hair out of her face to better see the eyes he spoke of.

"I don't want you to be Christine, Belle. Don't change."

"You'd better be careful," Belle smiled a little, fully satisfied with his atonement, "Speaking of your fiancée like that could get you into trouble."

Raoul saw his opportunity to make Belle acquainted with the truth, and he made use of it, "She's not my fiancée anymore."

He felt strangely placid as he spoke. No knots welled up in his throat; no urge to sigh despairingly arose from his heart. He took a crinkled letter out of his coat pocket and handed it to Belle.

It took a spell for her mind to register that a folded document had been placed in her hand. Silence stole over the room as she scrupulously read the letter again and again, trying to comprehend the meaning of it all. Her eyes darkened once past a certain passage and the letter dropped suddenly onto her lap.

Whatever color was in Belle's face faded out, and her foggy eyes showed the full extent of her shock. She felt the weight of all the devastating emotions Raoul had experienced upon first reading the letter, though their similar feelings were incited by vastly different reasons. Belle's feminine nature gave her allowance to express herself more ardently, and she let out a short breath, betraying a sliver of disgust through it.

"Did she really return the ring?"

"What reason would she have for keeping it?"

"Second thoughts. The ring just confirms her… finality." Belle appeared even more distressed than before.

"Should I toss it into the sewers?" Raoul said by way of joking.

"No, don't get rid of it. Keep it somewhere safe for the sake of the history behind it." Belle delicately folded the letter as if it was liable to crumble into dust at any moment. "Let it remind you that somewhere in this world there's a man who's suffered even more than you. At least you can walk down the street without the fear of people assaulting you for no other reason than your singular face."

"You think more than most girls your age."

"You don't know enough uneducated women. Rich girls have no need for thinking. _We_ have to be clever to survive."

Their smiles vanished when Belle posed her next question.

"Even now you don't despise her, do you?"

"No." There were few people in the world who Raoul truly hated, and he didn't believe in using the term liberally.

"I do." Raoul clenched his bottom jaw to the right side of his face, showing that he was puzzled, unfamiliar as he was with the hardness of her tone.

"If you won't hate her, I'll hate her for you. I can do so very easily. She threw away everything I would have given… would be willing to die for."

"What do you mean?"

"Love given and returned, mutual affection trust companionship; she threw it all away. If she really loved you, she wouldn't have fled so quickly from her nightmarish memories; she would have begged you by her side to face them together. She wouldn't have stood there wide-eyed and stupefied while _he_ roped you to a cold, iron grate. She would have struck him with his own candlestick until she had no strength left to fight. She would have fought him with every fiber of her being and not given you up for all the shadowed fantasies of a tortured mind. You almost died for her, and she... Christine's a fool," she spat.

"What are you saying?"

"Nothing." Belle released a sigh, making her sound quite spent, "It's one of the effects of my illness. I often blurt things out without thinking."

"No, you've done this before you were sick. Not everyone is the same, Belle. Christine was terrified. She doesn't have the same strength of mind as you."

Belle trembled and a fresh batch of tears began plotting a course down her cheeks.

"Belle..." Belle sobbed even harder. She wished he wouldn't say her name like that. The concern in his voice just made everything worse.

"How could she?"

Raoul was bewildered. Since he could think of nothing to say, he pulled Belle forward and embraced her. Belle laid her head on his shoulder, aching inside at the feel of his arms around her and the sound of their hearts beating so close together. Aching because she knew she couldn't have it forever.

She suddenly lifted her head and pulled away.

"Don't." she cried softly.

"What is it?"

Raoul wouldn't let her go, but held her tighter, "You aren't going to get angry and leave again, are you?"

Belle shook her head hesitantly. "I'm not angry..."

"Well, you can't leave while you're upset. What _is_ the matter, Belle? This isn't just about Christine. Something's happened, or… you're afraid something's going to happen. Hadn't you better tell me?"

Belle considered it tearfully. She dabbed her eyes with a fraying handkerchief and nodded.  
"I'll tell you. If you promise not to stop me."

* * *

_Hm. Alright everyone, we've hit a roadblock. The thing is, Kit and I started writing this fanfic a very long time ago, and our writing styles have seriously changed (and improved, I hope) since we first began this. I've been trying to revamp my own pieces to give them new life before posting, but changing this is a huge project, and there's no telling how long it will be before Kit and I can change her parts and be able to progress with the story. What I mean to say is that once Chapter 19 is published here, we don't have anymore story. It's NOT finished and we're NOT giving up on it. We just don't have the time or ability to rewrite and continue quite yet. I'm really sorry about this, but it can't be helped. Eventually Kit's muse -I'm talking to YOU, Evan!- will decide to be useful again, and you'll get a practically brand new story as well as an ending! Until then, I hope you enjoy what we have so far. Thanks so much for reading/reviewing!_

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"I can't promise anything until you've told me," Raoul said, hand at the ready, in case such a refusal sent Belle running out the door in dissatisfaction. The gesture wasn't necessary as Belle sorely needed a confidant. She stepped back and gave the handkerchief a little squeeze to steady her nerves.

"You're well aware of the fact that we are not…" here she paused, "That is… financially speaking… we aren't wealthy in any sense of the word."

Raoul felt as awkward as Belle looked, but his eyes fluttered only briefly to the floor. The rest of the time, he gave her his full attention.

Belle resumed. "My father has a cough he can't seem to shift, and… medicines are expensive. We were doing alright, until I fell ill. Without the money from my paintings, well… the truth is, we're dreadfully behind. I've tried making up for the time I was sick, but I can't just smear together a painting and sell it to the first person on the street. I get precious little for my work as it is.

"A few days ago, a well-to-do gentleman came to our house. He collects obscure art and he heard from a friend that I sell my paintings. He took an interest in several of my landscapes, but said he wanted something special to hang on his wall." Belle pressed a hand over her closed fist as she prepared to relate the climax of her narrative. "He offered a large sum of money for the portrait of Claire... and… and we took it." Belle was on the verge of crying again and her words tumbled out in shaky breaths "We didn't know what else to do. Mama said our first duty is to the living, and… I agree with her, but… Raoul, we _need_ that portrait! It's the only link my parents have to Claire. They try to treat the situation as a sad necessity, but my father can't bear to see the empty space on the mantle. I feel as if I've sold my sister for a piece of bread."

"You know that's not how it is."

"And yet, I still feel wretched." She stiffened a bit and looked at Raoul as an equal once more. "I'm going to get it back."

"How?"

"I know the man's name, and I have his address. I'll go to his house and ask him for it."

"Do you think he'll give it to you?"

"He might. While he showed an interest in my paintings, it was apparent that he also took an interest in…" Belle's hesitation gave Raoul a deep foreboding. "Well, he certainly liked me very much."

"You can't do this," Raoul said decidedly. "I won't let you put yourself in that situation. I'll pay him whatever he wants; just forget any ideas that involve you addressing a man all alone in his house."

Apparently, the fact that Belle at that very moment was alone with a man in his house seemed to have slipped his mind.

"We wouldn't be alone," Belle entreated, "There would be servants."

"No." Raoul went to the other side of the room and opened a desk drawer. He began counting the franc's he stored there.

"He won't take anything from you. He'd consider your high offer an insult and it would just make him more loathe to part with the painting."

"You're not going. It's too dangerous."

"A girl can use her feminine charms without losing her virtue."

"Possibly, but you aren't taking that chance."

"I'm getting that painting, whether you help me or not."

"I am helping you."

"You _can't_ help because this plan you're contriving will fall through. You might as well get used to the idea, because there's nothing you can do to stop me."

"I can tell your parents."

Belle was unprepared for such a remark. She gaped at him, wounded by his threat.

"Raoul, please."

"Be sensible, Belle. He won't just hand it to you in exchange for a sad smile and an innocent chat. Everything has a cost, and I have a feeling your portrait won't come cheap."

Belle knew he was right. She sighed hopelessly, dropping her shoulders and lowering her eyes in defeat. Unexpectedly, her form brightened as a new plan began to evolve.

"Perhaps he _would_ take your money…" Raoul was about to say it was the only thing worth trying. "…If _I_ offered it to him."

Belle expounded quickly, before another objection could be posed.

"If I told him I'd scraped up some money to buy the painting back, and addressed him properly, he wouldn't think me either foolish or forward. He'd see me just as I am: desperate. His interest in me would move him to sympathize, and the money in my hand would be a safeguard against any other ideas he might have hopes of me entertaining."

Raoul pressed his mouth against his folded hands in deliberation. After a few ticks of the grand clock, he spoke.

"Very well, then. But I'm taking you in my carriage and waiting for you outside."

Monsieur Sagnier resided in a less industrious part of Paris where the neighbors were a bit farther than a wall's knock away. The air was clearer there, and leafless trees with their bony limbs sprouted liberally along the roadside, giving testimony to life that was. Belle noted the silvery light that gave an enchanting touch to the passing plants and monuments sleeping out the cold until spring could bring them back. In town, the winter always looked so dismal and dirty. Here, it was almost as pretty as the springtime.

Raoul stopped the carriage before the house was in full view, and instructed his driver to wait for them as a precaution.

Raoul followed Belle's confident steps as he had done once before, only this time she knew he was shadowing her. Passing the two stone pillars that marked the start of the Monsieur's cobblestone walk, Belle spun around, startling her escort by the hurried movement.

"I think you'd better wait here. I want him to think I've come alone." The urgency of Belle's quest was increasing her courage and resolve. No signs of anxiousness or worry drew their ugly wrinkles across her smooth forehead; she held her head up, but not lofty, and the look in her eyes was one of cool independence. All at once the necessity of the situation was turning her into a woman.

Raoul took up her hand that had previously been carried just above her waist.

"Belle, listen to me." That prelude to a warning caused a change in Belle's visage, and she was back to being a child again, hanging on every word out of Raoul's mouth.

"If you sense anything amiss, I want you to turn around and walk straight out of there. Don't let him dismiss the servant, but tell him you're there strictly on business. If he wants more money, pretend to think carefully for a moment, and then say you may have a friend who can lend you the rest. Should he start to make you feel uncomfortable in the slightest, leave immediately. Trust your instincts. Don't let your guard down. And Belle…" his face was not so grave as before, "Remember to use the candlestick if necessary."

Belle nodded and made an effort to move, but Raoul didn't seem willing to let go of her hand.

"I'll be fine."

"What if something happens and you can't get out?"

"I'll make a clamor and set things on fire. When you come to rescue me, be sure to keep your hand at the level of your eyes. I've heard it's saved lives."

She headed up the walk, resuming her determined gait. The childish compliance was abandoned for a time as the woman in Belle regained command of her body once again.

Raoul stood behind one of the pillars to keep himself concealed while awaiting Belle's return. Here he was in another odd situation, trying to help Belle get out of trouble. Whenever she was around, something extraordinary was going on. Raoul didn't mind too terribly. He was a vicomte; what else did he have to spend his days doing?

It was hard to tell in the winter atmosphere, but the time was somewhere between eleven in the morning and twelve 'o clock, afternoon. The gold watch in Raoul's waistcoat pocket was now consulted for the exact time of day.

In order to occupy himself, he tried predicting the amount of time it would take for Belle to complete her business with Sagnier. Ten seconds to reach the door, a few more to request an audience with the Monsieur, a little wait before her petition to come in would be permitted or rejected, a brief walk to the room the gentleman occupied, less than a minute for formalities and introduction, and roughly five for Belle to present her case and do her best to appeal to the man's sympathy for her situation. Ten seconds more, and Belle would either have the painting in hand or a temper ready to flare at Sagnier's refusal. All this could take place in a very short while; less than ten minutes if all was going according to plan.

When fifteen had gone by, and there was still no sign of Belle, Raoul's idleness began to gnaw at him. Inaction was not a virtue (if it was indeed a virtue) that he had taken any pains to cultivate. He wondered if the negotiations were taking longer than expected due to hard stubbornness on Sagnier's part. It could be that the man was trifling with Belle; pretending to bargain with her when he had no intention of actually giving her the portrait back in the first place. Belle had promised to make a clamor if anything went wrong, but how could Raoul hear it if the windows were shut? A scope of the building and a confirmation of the windows' status could be made by closer inspection, but if Raoul was spotted by a servant, he'd have no choice but to enter the house as another visitor. The presence of a third party might very well be enough to distract Sagnier into an unfavorable mood, and if Raoul ruined Belle's chance at getting her painting, he knew she'd never forgive him.

Vowing never to forgive _himself_ if anything serious should happen to Belle, Raoul carefully turned the corner to creep closer to the front. He was met by the sight of Belle hurrying towards him, her ragged cloak fluttering behind her in the wind created by her brisk pace. He rejoiced to see a frame of considerable size clutched under her arm.

"No serious complications?" Raoul queried as Belle drew close enough to hear his undertone.

"No." Belle shook her head and smiled with closed mouth.

"Then what took you?"

"He was very hospitable. I had trouble getting away without insulting his generosity. He offered me tea and pastries, asked my opinion on particular pieces in his art collection, and wanted to know all kinds of things about my past. At first I thought he was just stalling, but he gave Claire's portrait back, as you see. He barely waited for me to finish my story before it was off the wall and in my hands. He stopped me at the door and said he was afraid I couldn't carry the portrait home on my own. It took me a while to assure him I possessed stamina enough for the journey."

"So what will you do now?"

"Take this home and then…" she faltered at the words, "Help Katherine with funeral arrangements," but she managed to say them somehow.

"Someone's died?!"

"Katherine's father."

They shared a respectful moment of silence.

"How do you intend to explain all this to your parents?"

"Gently and tactfully. I don't imagine they'll be upset as long as I have this," she passed a hand lovingly over the portrait, "Although Papa will demand to know why I was so senseless as to come without an escort. He'll wheedle the truth out of me in the end and then grow sour because I let _you_ take me."

"Your father doesn't approve of me."

"No, it isn't that at all. He just sees every action by a man who can still use his legs as an insult to his pride. More than that, he's very jealous of who I keep company with. Mama likes you, and she's a wonderful judge of character.

"I should really go." Her smile gradually wore out, beaten back by the sorrows of the day. Raoul thought the troubled look would have been done away by the repossession of her painting, but it had not been.

"All this worry isn't good for you so soon after your recovery."

"I have to worry or my family won't eat."

Suddenly and without premeditation Raoul thought of how marvelous it would be to give Belle a pampered and petted life. He could just see her expression of awe at opening the door to a closet full of new gowns, and tried to imagine her hair hanging loose around her shoulders as he'd seen it once, free of the tight curls and multiple pins that held it up now.

"Of course, I understand. But needless worry will turn you old before your time."

"_You're_ worried now."

"About you, yes."

"Then out of deep concern for your own health, I will strive diligently to be less anxious." Belle smiled prettily and repositioned the painting under her arm.

"Goodbye again." Feeling like a lady, she almost held her hand up for a kiss, but pulled it back down at the last minute. Perhaps it was too bold.

Raoul anticipated her whim and took the hand of his own accord, just as if she _were_ a high bred lady of consequence. He raised his eyes to look at her as it met his lips. Ah, there was the healthy glow she'd lost, brought back to her cheeks by a blush.

"Goodbye _until_ again."

The response was a graceful dip of the head. This was starting to become Belle's favorite game; pretending to have a chance with the vicomte.

Raoul watched the girl saunter off with her precious prize. He kept her in his sights until she disappeared around a bend, turning only once to get a final glance of her fair haired hero.

* * *

_Hello. Beth here. I just wanted to thank everyone for their continued interest in this story and the kind reviews stating concern about our writerly roadblock. Thank you. :) I also have some news. We've reached a temporary solution to our mess, which is for me to go on writing the story without Kit, until she can start back again and do all that revising. This means though, that past Chapter 19, there won't be much of Katherine and Erik. I know that Erik's generally the favorite character, but I'll do my best to keep you entertained with Raoul and Belle, leaving space for more Erik/Katherine at a later date. I'm sorry. This is really my fault for posting the story too soon, and I apologize for keeping you all hanging like this. I hope you keep reading!_

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth and Kit.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

"Dear, you mustn't leave your nice, new gown on the floor." Madame Durand gently lifted Katherine's black silk gown off of the floor and draped it over a chair. "You'll ruin it."

"I don't care." Katherine said tonelessly. "Let it ruin. I don't want it."

"It was so expensive!" Madame Durand exclaimed.

"What do I care? I have all of the money in the world... but just look at what it cost me."

Madame Durand frowned and patted Katherine's shoulder. "Best get dressed, dear. The services will be starting soon." With that, Madame Durand quietly withdrew from the room.

Katherine dressed slowly and listlessly. The only thing she could think about was the next few hours. She didn't hear Belle come in.

"Mama's worried about you."

Katherine didn't start, though she probably would have had her senses been as sharp as they usually were.

"Everyone seems to be lately." she said.

"Can you blame them?"

Katherine glanced at the small mirror that hung on the wall. Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles. She looked haggard and ill.

"No."

Stealthily, Erik moved through the graveyard like a ghost. The dark, overcast sky provided him with more shadows in which to hide than a sunny day would have. He drew as near to the group of funeral goers as he dared, standing in the shadow of a granite statue. He picked Katherine out of the small crowd. Even from a distance, he could see how careworn and withdrawn she looked. A line of worry creased his forehead. Her state had obviously deteriorated since he last saw her.

Katherine looked around the grave site. There weren't many people at the service, though it was as grand as Katherine could afford it to be. Most of her father's friends lived scattered around Europe and the Middle-East. The smallness of the group didn't bother Katherine much. Indeed, she was mostly unaware of those around her. The priest was reading from the massive Bible he held in front of him. Katherine couldn't concentrate on the words he was reading. Tears were running freely down her cheeks, down everyone's cheeks, except for the two women that stood across from Katherine. She hadn't noticed them there before. She blinked hard, clearing her vision. She could hardly believe her eyes. Her mother and her grandmother stood silently, observing the scene as if it were a mildly interesting play. Sudden rage, the likes of which Katherine had never felt before, welled up in her, fierce and hot. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palm painfully. The pain was sobering and, if only temporarily, Katherine's wits returned to her.

Erik noticed Katherine's sudden shift of attention. Just as steadfastly as she had been focusing on the priest, she was now focusing on two women who stood not too far across from her. Erik couldn't help but wonder who the women were. He wasn't close enough to see her expression, but her stance said enough. She was furious.

As the priest muttered the last word, he gently closed his Bible and bowed his head. The small group in front of him did the same. As he began muttering his prayer, Katherine watched her mother and grandmother through her eyelashes. It took a considerable amount of will power to stop herself from exploding. There was a time and a place for it and this wasn't it. As the priest's words died away, Katherine watched as two grave diggers began to pile dirt into the deep hole on top of her father's coffin. A sharp burst of sadness ripped through her. Tears once again gathered in her eyes and ran in rivulets down her face. She had almost forgotten her rage, until she felt herself pulled into a tight embrace. At first she thought that it may have been Belle or Madame Durand, but the distinct smell of rose water and lilacs told her differently.

"Oh, my darling," her mother said. "Whatever shall we do without him?"

Katherine pushed her mother away roughly. "I expect that you will do the same things that you've been doing for the past year," she hissed. "As you were without him then, too, and it didn't seem to have bothered you much."

"I've missed you both terribly." Her mother sobbed.

"Not terribly enough to come back." Katherine pointed out. "You have a lot of nerve showing your face here. You've no business here. None at all."

"My darling," Katherine's mother patted her hand. "I know you don't mean what you're saying. You're distraught."

"Don't touch me." Katherine pulled her hand away and wiped it against the skirt of her gown. "And you know good and well that I mean what I'm saying. You said your goodbyes to my father and to me the second that you stepped over the threshold. You're as dead to me as he is now. You might as well be lying beside him; it would make no great difference to me except perhaps the risk of contaminating consecrated ground with your rotting corpse would concern me, in which case I would start a petition to have you moved to somewhere more fitting like the banks of the river Seine."

Katherine didn't notice the timbre of her voice had been steadily increasing until the last words crossed her lips in a yell.

"You can't talk to your mother like that!" Elise's mother hissed.

"I wouldn't talk to my mother like that." Katherine growled, focusing her attention first on Elise's mother and then back on Elise herself.

"Now hear this. I want you gone. This funeral is not a public affair, and as far as I'm concerned you're public. I don't even know how you found out about it, but you've no more right to be here than a stranger off of the street. I can't imagine any reason that you and that cantankerous old mule you call mother would come here except to lay claim to some of the so recently acquired fortune left in my possession, in which case I think it's necessary to tell you that father wrote you out of his will months ago, and if you somehow got the idea into your head that I'm going to share with the likes of you then you have another thing coming."

Elise, Madame Durand, Belle and the rest of the funeral goers all stood gaping. One or two of Julien's close friends applauded a little. The priest was aghast.

"Madame, mademoiselle, please. Is this any way to behave over a grave?" he pleaded.

"Now see here, young lady!" Elise's mother croaked. "In my day, a woman---"

"In your day, women were under the example of Catherine de Medici." Katherine said dryly. "Which makes whatever you were about to say irrelevant to the current times." Belle snorted. Madame Durand nudged her to be quiet.

"See here!" Elise's mother said again. "You sniveling little brat, how dare you speak to me like that! You're nothing but a lowborn urchin with the manners of a stray dog! You have no right to speak to me in such a manner... I have half a mind to---"

"Mother," Elise interrupted. "Remember your manners. Katherine has just lost her father, and she's very upset." she said pointedly.

"Right. Of course. Forgive me, I forgot my manners." Elise's mother apologized dully.

"I want you two _gone_!" Katherine shouted as loud as she could. "I don't want to hear your pathetic apologies, your sad attempts at sympathy, nothing. You have no right to be here, so leave before I fetch the police."

"The police would do nothing, we're---" Elise's mother began, but Elise stopped her.

"Come on, mother. I think that the poor dear needs some time to herself."

Erik watched as the two women walked away. He'd heard the whole argument, of course. Erik was under the impression that several of the residents of the graveyard had heard the argument. He turned his attention back to Katherine, who had collapsed onto the ground into a pool of sobbing black silk. His mind vaguely registered the silk, and he might have wondered how she came about acquiring it had he not been so concerned. Two women, whom he recognized as Belle and Madame Durand, helped her to her feet and began to lead her away. Katherine, still shaking uncontrollably, threw one last look backwards at her father's grave. Her gaze traveled a bit farther. Their eyes met, and Erik could have sworn that she saw him.

"Go on, Katherine, take the bed. I insist." Belle said, throwing a blanket down. "I have no qualms about sleeping on the floor."

"No." Katherine said dully, taking her hair down and letting it tumble like a dark waterfall down her back. "I'll sleep on the floor. It's your house after all."

"But _you're_ the guest." Belle argued.

"But it's _your_ house."

Belle sighed, realizing the impossibility of gaining any ground. "What if we both sleep on the floor?"

"That's fine."

Katherine was so mentally exhausted by the day's events that she fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Belle, having nothing better to do, quickly followed suit.

Erik restlessly paced the streets of Paris, slinking through the shadows like an alley cat. His worry for Katherine prevented him from staying still. In all of his travels, throughout his whole life he'd never seen anything quite so unsettling as what he'd seen that afternoon. He couldn't clear his mind. He wished there was something, anything he could do to make her feel better. He passed a flower bed filled with roses, big lush roses of every color. He was reminded, painfully, of the way Christine's eyes would light up every time she found one of the red roses that he would often leave for her. Erik bent and plucked three of the white blooms, deciding to deliver them to Katherine in an attempt to cheer her up.  
He decided that he would try the Durand house first. In all likelihood, Katherine was staying with them. At any rate, the Durand's house was nearer to him than Katherine's house was, and he could at least check to see whether or not she was there.

The windows in the Durand house were completely dark. There was no way of knowing whether or not Katherine was within, but Erik was almost completely sure that she would be. Calculating the risks, he decided that it would be worth it to risk being wrong than to pass up the opportunity. He tried the door first. It was, of course, locked. He debated picking it, but he discarded the idea and tried a window instead. The window to the right of the door was locked, but the window on the left was open. A small beam of moonlight illuminated the inside of the room that the window led to, but only just. Erik could only guess that the room was the kitchen. Silently, he slid the window open and crawled through, not making a sound.

From experience, Erik knew that the Durand house was small, and due to an extremely accurate photographic memory, he was able to navigate his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs to Belle's bedroom door, which was shut. Carefully, he turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly. He held his breath, hoping that the door wouldn't squeak. It didn't.

In the moonlight, he could see two shapes on the floor and the steady rise and fall of the blankets that covered the shapes let Erik know that they were indeed Katherine and Belle. He had some trouble distinguishing between the two girls, as they were both heavily covered with thick quilts and the dark cast shadows across their faces, but he knew Katherine as soon as he saw her. She looked strangely peaceful, her pale face flushed pink with sleep. The circles under her eyes, however, were as well defined as ever and she still looked haggard. Erik sighed softly and lay the three white blooms down near Katherine's head, though not so near that she ran the risk of turning over and injuring herself on the sharp thorns.

Katherine's hair ran over her pillow like a dark stream. Erik suddenly felt the urge to run his hands over it and feel the silky smoothness run through his fingers. He shook his head sharply, clearing the image. He turned to leave the room, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at Katherine's sleeping form. He was immensely worried about her. She seemed so fragile. As he neared the door, he heard a noise. He spun around quickly, scanning the room. Belle was propped up on her elbow, regarding him coolly.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

"Making a delivery." he answered, inclining his head towards the roses. "I was hoping that they would cheer her up."

"And they might just do that." Belle said. "How did you get in?"

"I have my ways." Erik said mysteriously.

"The window in the kitchen, then. The lock's been broken for ages."

"Yes, the window." he sighed and threw a glance toward Katherine again.

"You're worried about her too, aren't you?"

"Deeply concerned."

Belle looked at Katherine for a good long while. "She'll be fine." Belle said. "She went through the same thing when her mother left but she was back to her old self in a week or so."

"There is, I fear, a major difference that may change matters."

"What's that?"

"Her father will never come back."

"Neither will her mother."

Erik bowed his head. "Then for her sake I hope that you're right." With that he turned and withdrew from the room, and back through the window from whence he came.

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth (me) and Kit. (Esareh)


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

The blanket under which Belle lay began to shift and squirm until a single foot was stuck out to test the morning chill. Belle would have liked to stay under the covers and sleep past mid-morning, but the bluish light peeping into the room told her in the most gloomy way that it was high time to be up and moving.

Leaving Katherine still asleep, she scurried to the kitchen in order to dress behind the bath curtain. The heat from the fireplace and the stove managed to permeate all through the first floor to some degree, making anywhere in the house a better place to dress than her own room.

The little that existed for breakfast was served in a highly unimaginative manner, and no one taking part in the meal seemed to care how it was done. Katherine came down before the last of the hard cheese was consumed, looking no different than she had the day before. The whole house slipped into silence, as if the walls themselves could feel the void within her. No one spoke except to offer her food or drink, and Katherine's replies were as depressing as the weather.

Belle glanced her way and tried not to sigh. What if she was wrong about Katherine after all? What if she stayed this way forever? Any other time, the two would have been laughing over one another's jokes and receiving warning glances from Marie when they took their humor a little too far.

What if Katherine never laughed again? The thought almost succeeded in stinging her eyes with fresh tears. Those were becoming a frequent nuisance lately, and she forced herself to think of something pleasant. She'd promised Raoul she wouldn't worry so much. He had been concerned for her; enough to sit by her bed all hours of the night while she was sick, her mother said. Knowing that he thought of her sometimes was enough to push the present fears away. She wondered if this was one of those times; if they were thinking of each other right now. Silly. Ridiculous, even, but it did help.

"Katherine," Belle seemed very bent on tracing the paint stains on the table for a moment. "How did you like your flowers?"

Glancing up to read her reaction, she thought she could just distinguish the smallest hint of a smile, and sad though it was, it fed the flames of hope she kindled for her friend's future happiness. The real Katherine still lived. She was buried in an ocean of grief at the time being, but Belle promised herself that her spirits would revive in time.

In order to keep her mind more happily employed, Belle moved her easel to the front room and began a sketch of Julien before the picture of his face faded from her memory. The drawing formed rapidly under Belle's steady hand while the world around her disappeared. No pressing distractions existed there on the canvas; only Katherine's father and all the eccentricities of his life. She made Julien's wardrobe a mesh of different cultures, combining Oriental robes with a British necktie, and topping off the ensemble with a Persian cap. She had just started to draw a globe to be balanced on his finger, when someone shattered the quiet by a rhythmic knock on the door.

"It's probably one of the neighbors wanting to offer condolences," Belle said to Katherine. She might as well have spoken to Claire's ghost. The same forlorn silence would have answered her.

Belle nearly became a ghost herself when she saw Raoul waiting casually outside her door. Words were still struggling to break free from her lips when Marie appeared to save her with a friendly greeting.

"Hello, Raoul."

"It's good to see you again, Madame Durand. Although I think we should make a point to start meeting under more pleasant circumstances."

Belle did her best to will her mouth closed. "Since when have you two become so familiar with each other?"

"You missed more than three days of your life, dear. It was plenty of time for Monsieur de Chagny and me to become acquainted with one another. I told you he was here the entire time."

"Yes, but I assumed he came at night and left in secret. He's standing outside our door in broad daylight!"

"_He_ would like permission to come in."

Belle stood aside.

"How is Katherine?" he lowered his voice to ask, and immediately the atmosphere shifted to a darker mood. Belle nodded toward her friend who did no more than raise her eyes in acknowledgement of their presence.

Raoul tried not to wince at her haggard appearance. Keeping his tone barely above a whisper he said to Belle, "You should leave this place."

"What?"  
"Only for a little while, of course. You need a distraction from all this… this death."

"I'm fine. I have my painting."

"If you force yourself to be trapped in this house for much longer, you'll start to resent it. Besides, I want to see Paris through the eyes of a…" he stopped himself. "Through your eyes. Where do Belle Durand's feet go in those little brown shoes?"

Belle smiled, but shook her head, "I couldn't possibly leave Katherine."

"She won't even notice you're gone."

It was true. Katherine had fallen asleep on the couch, her troubled head lulled to what was hopefully a peaceful slumber by the low murmur of voices.

"I'll get my cloak."

The winter fog had almost lifted for the afternoon, although a slight edge on the air persisted on chilling the pedestrians.

Belle led the vicomte to all her favorite haunts—hesitantly at first, and carefully avoiding any persons she knew too well—stopping here and there to point out something of interest she associated with a pleasant memory, most of them including Katherine.

"There's Jane, the flower peddler," she'd say, not lingering long enough to catch her eye, "Her brother died in a fight last year and she's left on her own."

"Who was fighting him?"

"Another competitor. They were doing it for the betting money, but his opponent got out of hand… Oh!" She cut herself off so abruptly that to Raoul it was like watching a distracted child on a holiday. "That bird overhead—do you see? There it goes. I want to paint it with the mist and the sky, just like it was." She focused silently for a few more moments, closed her eyes to seal the view into her memory. When she looked back at Raoul, her face had taken another alteration towards womanhood, and her eyes had suddenly grown somber, reflective.

"Katherine could have told you which bird that was. I know colors and she knows names. Nothing's right when she isn't herself."

Belle's unwitting demonstration of her dual nature forced a question out of Raoul that had been nagging at him for some time.

"How old are you?"

Belle was mid-way between woman and child now, with her curved little smile and arched eye.

"How old do you think I am?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, that's why I ask."

"Surely you must have a guess. Do I look twelve? Six and forty?"

"You could be anywhere between fifteen and twenty three, and I wouldn't be surprised whichever the case."

"And yet you remarked that I think more than most girls my age, not knowing what that age is."

"That's just it. You look and sometimes act like a girl, but your mind keeps more matured ideas. Your face is so young, but your eyes are something else entirely."

"With that assessment, you could be a painter, Raoul. To answer your question, I am eighteen winters old."

"And summers?"

Belle considered, "Seventeen, I suppose. I was born in the autumn."

"How old was your sister Claire? Older... or younger?"

"Older, and it showed. Not that she looked a great deal older, but she was far more patient and considerate than I. She didn't worry so much over what couldn't be helped.

"'Belle,' she used to say, 'Stop giving yourself a headache over that trifle and sit down with me.' Then she'd have me brush her hair and ask me to sing to her. When it was done, I always felt like she'd done me the favor instead of the reverse."

Raoul would have pressed her further, but Belle was already trotting off to some newfound object that pleased her eye.

"Shouldn't you be getting home? It's almost lunchtime. You must be hungry." Truthfully, Belle was starving, and she didn't want to miss out on whatever crusts or crumbs could be spared at home.

"Oh yes, must get home for lunch." Raoul's words were almost petulant. "I'm certain my butler will be missing me dreadfully by now. He's probably in anguish over the grief I've caused the cook in not ordering my food promptly."

Belle laughed, and immediately felt guilty. Was it right to laugh so soon after Katherine's tragedy?

Raoul mistook her shift in emotions, upbraiding himself for being so thoughtless with jokes about cooks when Belle had next to nothing at home. She must be ravenous from all their walking.

"Being at my own house doesn't make me very happy these days," he said by way of amendment, "it's spacious, quiet, filled with cold, lifeless objects, and not much else. I prefer walking with you. May I show you something, now?"

She nodded curiously in response.

Just before Raoul could offer his arm to her, Belle found another distraction—this time lower to the ground and very dirty—to tear herself away from his side.

"Hey, boy!" Belle grabbed a grimy arm that was connected to an equally grimy shoulder, neck, and head. All parts of anatomy belonging to a boy with a fruit in his hand.

"Put that back," she said, giving her tone no room for argument.

The boy thought differently.

"But I'm hungry!"

"Then how about you work for your food?"

"T'aint no different than starving. You know there ain't always good food to be had, even if one's got money to buy it."

"If you put that apple back, I'll show you a place where you can get a good meal just by doing a few errands for the lady. How would you like that?"

"The place don't exist."

"Oh it doesn't!" Belle instinctively mothered him. "I suppose I just dreamt it up one evening, and all the people who go there only imagine that they get full bellies and a good night's rest, hm?"

"You're talkin' about an inn. Tell me which one, and I'll put the apple back."

"I don't think so. You put the apple back first, and then I'll give you directions to some honest work."

The bantered exchange left Raoul curious once more.

"How _do_ you know to speak so appropriately in both high and low society? I hardly notice a difference between your speech and other ladies."

"My mother's mother was a maid in a rich lady's house. There she picked up proper speech and taught it to my mother, who in turn taught it to me and my father. It serves very well to help me sell paintings. It gives me certain respectability with potential buyers. Out here on the streets, it's no use trying to be proper. You earn their respect by being quick and sharp with your answers."

When they finally arrived at the place Raoul was keen on showing Belle, she shrank back at once.

"The café? I'm not sure…"

"You must. Consider it my thanks for the distractions today."

"But you were the one distracting me."

"Was I? Oh, I'm afraid I was only pretending to be interested in serving you. I really acted out of the most selfish and indulgent desires today and you must make the sacrifice by bearing my gratitude with a brave face."

Belle's jumbled mind tried to make sense of his arguments so she could devise a defense against them, but just as she thought she found the right rebuttal, the unmistakable scent of newly baked pastries found her nose, and the pit in her stomach seemed colossal.

"Only a little lunch, then." And she followed him inside.

* * *

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth (me) and Kit. (Esareh)


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Belle's mind was fuzzy all during Katherine's departure and afterwards. She couldn't reconcile her reason to what had happened. She _knew_ Katherine was gone—knew it in the vague way you know you've broken a bone before the pain sets in and you see the distortion of your limb—but she didn't fully believe it. She'd been preparing herself to carry on with the difficulty of having only a part of her dearest friend with her as she recovered from her tragic shock; not ready to be separated from _all _of Katherine at once.

The worst thing was that if Katherine had been fully aware of the situation when her interfering relatives had whisked her away to "make a lady of her," Belle wouldn't have been so concerned over the unpleasant situation. She was good at taking care of herself, but Katherine may not have been taken off at all if she had been awake to all her faculties. She only hoped that in all the transformations they were bound to impose on her, Katherine's spirit wouldn't be smothered in the process. The high class circle of aristocrats who called themselves Katherine's family didn't understand her… they didn't understand _anything_.

They didn't even understand why Katherine's old friend would come calling and expect entrance into their home. Their house was nowhere near the grandness of Raoul's, and still they acted a thousand times as lofty as he ever did. The prim, sharp nosed maid took one look at Belle and minced no words when declaring she wasn't wanted. Belle disagreed forcefully enough to bring reinforcement in the form of an older and even more severe maidservant.

"The family will not want to see you." Her nose twitched as if she could smell Belle's commonness rolling off of her in foul scented waves.

"Then they can look the other way while I speak to my friend and spare themselves the spectacle," she responded as her foot inched towards the threshold. Belle was usually a very patient person, but these people were absurd.

"What are you two dawdling at the door for?"

Belle responded to the known voice by stiffening in defense. Elise had been hailed by the commotion, and if there had ever been a time in her life when she was feeling kind and receptive of others, this was not that time.

Belle curtsied politely. "I would like to see Katherine, please."

"I'm afraid you can't. Katherine is in deep mourning and cannot be bothered any longer to keep acquaintances with all the low born rabble of her past."

Any other errand would have been given up by this time, but Belle wouldn't abandon any chance of seeing Katherine. "Is there a better time for me to call? Perhaps when she's feeling a little better?"

"Katherine will be far too busy learning how to accept her new life in high society, _where she belongs_. You'd better not come back at all, dear. It would be a pity for you to wear out your already splitting shoes with… unnecessary ambling. Good day, Miss Durand."

And the door was shut in her face with a final whoosh and click.

"That woman!" Belle cried, storming out into the street, unheeding at first where she was going.

Gentlemen with their fine walking sticks and ladies tucked demurely away in luxuriously hooded cloaks milled past Belle's tattered figure while she pondered what she was after. Someone to hear her, she decided. Someone else with experience in being shunned; who knew what it felt like to have a door slammed in their face for the sake of aristocratic pride. Empathy, above all. If she could just speak to Katherine! But there was the problem.

Belle had no desire to run home and explain all to her mother who would pity and coddle her. It wasn't consoling she was after. Raoul might respond better than her mother with a ploy intended to make her laugh and forget everything. A flicker of recollection from her recent dismissal told her she wasn't in the mood to be made to laugh, however. She_ wanted_ to be angry; to hold on to the bitter resentment she felt churning inside her gut like the after effects of old food. But it was necessary that she tell someone. Otherwise the sickening feelings might boil up inside her and cause pain enough to cry. She was sick of crying. It made her hungry, and there wasn't enough to eat as it was.

A thought occurred to her. Belle wasn't the only one who had connections to Katherine. There was at least one other who would be harboring unpleasant feelings over the unalterable circumstances; someone who may not have been informed of Katherine's change of title and residence at all. To him she would go.

Underground it was damp and musty. Water oozed from the cracks, dripping everywhere along the craggy walls, making the very human sounds of Belle's footfalls seem unwelcome and out of place. The rough, cavernous openings were draped with mutated shadows leering at her discomfort, reminding her she was alone and altogether without protection. Everything was foreign and monstrous. It took her far too long to find anything familiar looking, and when at last she thought she had, it turned out to be a trick, leading her deeper into caverns which took her to more dizzying passages, until she found herself trapped in a little room that shut her in with one terrifying click.

Belle looked around at the confining walls—had the room shrunk in size since the mere seconds she'd been trapped there, or was it her imagination?—struggling to take heart. As long as she hadn't inadvertently set off a death trap, she would be safe. Until she escaped and stumbled into another death trap that would secure her demise. Or was it possible that she could be accidently killed by the very man she came to help? Erik wouldn't sentence any intruder to death without seeing who his intended victim was, would he?

Would he?

Did the far wall just move toward her?

Belle began to pound on the walls with her fists. She told herself that if the noise didn't alert Erik to her presence or if she was ignored in spite of it, the consistent barrage would indicate any secret panels that could mean her rescue.

She didn't realize she had worked herself into a frenzied perspiration when the door flew open and Erik himself strode into the room.

Her hands were raised in fists over her head, her hair damp and stringy from the exertion, her eyes frozen wide with panic.

Erik looked at her quizzically, as if measuring her fear. If he asked, Belle would have readily told him she was terrified near to death and would rather be strangled with a Punjab than suffocated in a dark, lonely room.

"You?"

Belle was busy regaining her breath and letting her heartbeat slip back into pace. She didn't reply.

"Well, well," Erik said condescendingly, "I may have saved your life, but I still don't allow anyone to simply waltz into my home."

"I'm sorry!" she gasped. And she was; sorry that she'd been foolish enough to come down here in the first place. "I would have left a card first, but my footman had trouble finding the front door."

He frowned, seemed to reconsider his anger when he saw how shaken she was and asked rather gruffly, "What are you doing down here?"

"I came to tell you that Katherine's gone," she managed very well, considering her erratic heartbeat.

"You think I'm unaware of that?"

"I… wasn't sure. And I didn't want you thinking she'd run off on purpose without saying goodbye."

His snort was quite ungentlemanly, Belle thought.

"Katherine's comings and goings are of no concern to me whatsoever. Why should they be? I am not her guardian and she does not care to inform me of her decisions. But why should that surprise me? Why should I expect any less from a common peasant girl? What am I to her, or to anyone for that matter?" His eyes clamped onto Belle's. "_Nothing._"

Some far buried emotion loosed itself within her. After dealing with the insufferable slights of snobbish citizens and fearing for her life as she struggled to escape the confines of the death chamber she was not in the best mood to have her thoughtfulness thrown back in her face.

"I can't answer for her, but I'm fairly certain now is the time she'd start using oaths and mention how ironic it is that a man of such brilliance can be so blithering stupid. But I'm not Katherine, so I can't say exactly how she'd defend herself to you. Instead of accusing her of whatever slights you're so familiar with, perhaps you should try being more considerate regarding the difficulties amassing in her life at present. _You_ may not understand the bond between parent and child, but that doesn't acquit you of your insincerity towards Katherine.

"Now if I'm not needed and you can gain your precious information by other means, I'll gladly be shown the way back up so that your negligence doesn't kill me. One of us still cares for Katherine, and I'd rather her not lose all her friends at once."

Belle knew she would never be as forthright and unflinching as Katherine, but she still refused to be a simpering coward. She felt quite liberated from her outburst.

Erik stared; mingled pride and frustration made him unwilling to release Belle from his scowl of displeasure. They locked eyes, both wanting not to be the first to back down. Belle wasn't as practiced in making herself intimidating, and she was clearly not at her best this day. She soon gave herself up by sighing as she turned her face away.

The wood panels stared silently back at her while she held her fists down to keep from shaking.

"Very well."

Belle raised her head. "Come this way where the light is better." She followed him cautiously out of the chamber, trying to ignore the tingling in her nose; afraid if she sneezed he might change his mind out of pure annoyance and set her clothes on fire with the torch in hand. It was all in vain, however, for she succumbed in a matter of moments and sneezed rather violently.

Erik glanced back, irritated. "Are you cold?"

Her head shake was hardly convincing.

"Let's make a point not to deceive one another, Mlle. Durand."

"Belle. I'm only Belle, and I'm freezing."

Erik wore no cloak at present and had nothing to offer the little creature for warmth. "Come closer to the fire, then."

Belle struggled to keep up with his long strides. She knew she should be paying more attention to the turns Erik was taking, the levers he stooped to pull, and the hidden notches he pressed to bring them through, but she was too absorbed in her musing of the day and the relief of getting out that she didn't keep track of place or time. Remnants of anger still pestered her when she thought of Elise and her distasteful remarks. She preferred confrontations with a dangerous man in a mask, she concluded.

"Erik," she suddenly blurted, "Are my shoes splitting?"

Puzzled, he looked down for a moment. "Not that I can see."

She nodded, satisfied.

Erik stopped their progress before they broke out from the shadows of the lair into open sunlight. "I trust this little... episode will not recur." Erik paused. "After all, it would be quite a shame if something were to happen to you. Really, it is for your own safety."

Belle considered this for a moment. "If that's what you want." she said finally.

"It is. Very much so. I am accustomed to loneliness, you must understand."

The continuous use of thinly veiled threats was beginning to annoy Belle.

"Of course." she said shortly.

"Good day, Mademoiselle."

"Good day."

In her loneliness and rejection from Katherine's world, Belle was reduced to keep informed through gossip. Eavesdropping wasn't a far cry from silent watching—an occupation she was well learned in from studying subjects for her art. The only change she made in her daily regimen was to focus on keeping her ears open rather than her eyes. It was difficult, considering how many remarkable things were to be seen at the park. She had to take great care little beetles on the just-sprouting leaves or a flush of pink skirts on a passing woman didn't distract her from any words that might lead to knowledge of Katherine's health or recovering happiness. Gossipy women were apt to exaggerate, but there was always a margin of truth to be had in each story if you were clever enough to draw it out. What discovery she made without seeking it was how many people within her circles spoke of Raoul, and what they said of him.

"Did you see Marie's girl dragging the Viscount around Paris like a hussy?" One unfamiliar woman's voice met her ear as she sat entirely unsuspecting in the bench back to back with Belle's.

"She didn't put on airs, Matilde. I saw her helping Antoine in the street not long past. She's still the same Belle Durand that spent half a day looking for your no good tomcat." Belle recognized the second voice as belonging to a Miss Jeanine. No one knew how old she was, but guesses never strayed far from mid-eighties.

"Maybe, but it's still peculiar. I've never seen anything like it in all my days."

"All your days don't amount to much, so it's no use pretending to be some wise old woman." Belle tried not to give herself away by giggling at this. "Things are changing, Matilde. The time will come when the aristos realize they're made of the same flesh and blood as the rest of the earth's miserable inhabitants. Maybe de Chagny's a step ahead of the others."

"Does anyone know how she knows him? How do they get to the point of hanging off each other like that?" Belle stiffened at her post. They were doing no such thing!

"The opera disaster, so I've heard it rumored. He's giving her piano lessons seeing as she saved his life."

The crass woman called Matilde chuckled. "I'll wager they're doing more than playing at the piano."

"Now, now. I know Marie. She wouldn't allow for that. And Belle is a good girl. If something of that nature were going on, Belle wouldn't be seen with him in public. She wasn't ashamed in the least. It's my belief that the Viscount de Chagny is something outside the regular sphere of French nobles. You know he was engaged to that chorus girl."

"But _you_ know how that came to an end. He's a philanderer, for sure."

"Not for sure, you ignorant bat. It's to my knowledge that _she_ broke it off. Her mind was all but destroyed by the ghost. And as I said, times is changing."

As their chatter turned to apple season and bakery prices, Belle sat quietly on her bench and wondered about Christine. She pondered over the words, 'Her mind was all but destroyed.' How true was that? The letter she'd read of the broken engagement seemed sensible enough, regardless of her forsaking Raoul. But then, she _had_ broken an engagement to Raoul. Maybe she _was _mad. Though if it were so, how did the hunched old woman know of it? How did she know before Raoul? Wouldn't his brother inform him of such a turn of events?

Belle turned on the bench and politely interrupted the two women. "Miss Jeanine, how do you know… pardon me; _what_ do you know about Christine?"

"Mon Dieu, child! How long have you been sitting there? Never mind. My grand nephew's a coachman. He took…" Miss Jeanine eyed Matilde warily and leaned to whisper to Belle, "her and her _other lover_ to one of them cross points that goes on to London. Miss Daae was acting a bit oddly. Skittish, I think he said, although that's hardly insane. Matilde and I get skittish over spiders, and we're not mad.

"Well… I speak for myself, only."

Matilde by now was coughing loudly to express her displeasure in being left out of the conversation. She eyed Belle with a less than pleased expression.

"I'm sorry for interrupting. I believe you were having a private conversation that didn't concern others and it was rude of me to presume involvement in it. I'll be going now."

Miss Jeanine shook her head bemusedly as Belle disappeared in a bustling tide of Parisians. A faint smile graced the corners of her elderly lips, and for once, Miss Jeanine noted, Matilde was silent.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** So last night I had this marvelous surprise in my inbox. The subject line read: **Risen from the dead! This story is a vampire!** And the contents are what I bring you now. Behold it. A BRAND NEW chapter from our lovely long lost Kit! BEHOOOOOLD!

* * *

**Chapter 21**

"Why don't you eat?"

"I don't want it." Katherine snapped, pushing away the plate riddled with strange 'delicacies' that looked as if they'd already been digested.

"Now, what way is that to address your mother?"

Katherine had been at her grandmother's grandiose mansion for nearly a month. When the letter came demanding... requesting... her presence, she hadn't had the will to say no. She let herself be carted off like cattle. Wealthy cattle. Belle hadn't known what to say. Hadn't said anything, really, except for 'Is this really what you want?'

But Katherine hadn't known.

"The Duke of Kent is stopping by later to see you, Katherine."

She scoffed. "His French is terrible. Half the time, he insults me without knowing it. Blathering idiot."

"He would be a good match for you." her mother chastised.

"For me, or for the family?"

"Both. You must learn that you and the family are one and the same." her grandmother said.

"Is it even appropriate to meet with suitors in a period of mourning?"

"You cannot let a little something like mourning get in the way of living your life," her grandmother said.

Katherine abruptly pushed back from the table and disappeared into the hallway in a whirl of black silk.

"Disgraceful, Elise" her grandmother sputtered as soon as she was sure she had gone. "Absolutely disgraceful. I'd count us lucky if we could persuade a stable boy to marry her."

"As long as we get what we need from her, that's all that matters," her mother responded.

"You must get her to sign the papers."

"All in good time."

A servant entered the diningroom and curtseyed. "A letter for Mademoiselle Katherine, Miss."

"Thank you, Alice." Elise said kindly as she stood, moving across the room and holding a hand out for the envelope. "I'll make certain she gets it."

The girl curtseyed again and scurried away.

"Another letter from that base-born artist girl," Elise scoffed. "I shall put this with the rest, I suppose," she said flippantly before tearing the envelope in two and casting it into the small wood-furnace in the corner of the room.

"I shouldn't have come here," Katherine muttered to herself, tossing her fine, heavy gowns into a trunk. "I shouldn't have come here. I don't know what I was thinking."

She hadn't been thinking at all.

She threw her final gown into the trunk and forced the lid closed before collapsing on top of it. How many times in the last month had she done this exact thing? How many times had she pulled together all will and determination to disappear into the night before losing her conviction? There was still some part of her, some small, miniscule part of her that hoped to reconcile with her mother and that part, no matter how the rational parts of her mind seemed to argue, always won out.

She bit back a sob and threw the trunk open before replacing the gowns in her wardrobe.

_What do I have to go back to, anyway? _She wondered as she smoothed them down. _Belle hasn't bothered coming to call, and Erik has no doubt disowned all thought and concept of me by now._

The thought was almost painful. _Is this really all that's left for me? _

She hadn't realized how few connections she had in the world.

The knock on the door startled her. "Katherine, darling," her mother trilled. "Andrew is here to see you. He's waiting for you in the parlor."

Biting back her annoyance, Katherine strode purposefully to the study, sure to plaster a smile on her face as she rounded the corner.

"Katherine," the man smiled, rising to his feel. "You're looking quite terrifying this evening."

Katherine winced at the man's butchering of her native tongue. "As are you, Andrew," she replied.

Andrew beamed. "I trust your mother and grandmother are suffering?"

"I certainly hope so," Katherine said. "I say, Monsieur Quinn. Your French improves each time we meet."

"Do you think so?" he asked excitedly. "I haven't been trying to improve it at all!"

"And it shows."

"And who would have thought that my time in France would have resulted in my meeting such a beautiful and horrid young woman?"

"Must have been pure luck," Katherine commented flatly.

"I was wondering, Mademoiselle Aiton," Andrew began nervously, tugging lightly at the collar of his expensive looking shirt. "If you might grant me the pleasure of courting you?"

Katherine resisted the immediate impulse to gape. "Monsieur, I-"

"She most certainly would!" her mother exclaimed, bustling around the corner quickly. "It would be not only her honor, but the honor of this family if-"

"Mother, I do hope you weren't eavesdropping?" Katherine feigned shocked concern.

Her mother balked slightly. "Of course not. I was simply coming to inform you that tea had been prepared for the two of you."

"Monsieur Quinn… Andrew," Katherine began sincerely. "I am afraid I cannot accept your offer. It wouldn't be fair to you."

"Does your heart belong to another?" Andrew asked, crushed.

"No, nothing like that," she assured him. A pang shot through her chest and Erik's face flashed through her head at her negative confession. Although it gave her pause, she pressed on. "I fear I have not been completely honest with you in regards to my position."

"What do you mean?"

"Katherine-" her mother began, but Katherine ignored her.

"I spent a majority of my life poor. I was raised by my father, a merchant. I only recently came into my fortune, and only recently came to be reunited with my mother's family. I am no great lady. I've never had finishing of any kind. Why, a little over a month ago, every gown I owned was threadbare, my shoes were beginning to split, I had dirt underneath my fingernails, and I spent a majority of my days standing on a bridge over the Seine helping my friend sell paintings so her family could eat."

Andrew looked mildly horrified.

"If you still wish to court me after my telling you this, then by all means, I will certainly grant you the honor of doing so."

"I… well, I mean to say that I… It seems I have lost track of time. I must be somewhere shortly, so I am afraid I must take my leave." The Englishman stood up, bowed hastily, and all but ran from the room.

Katherine collapsed into an armchair.

"Do you realize what you've done?" her mother demanded, eyes burning holes through Katherine. "You chased the Duke of Kent out of our house! You will never have a chance like that again! You could have married-"

"Didn't you used to tell me that finding love was the greatest accomplishment one could achieve in a lifetime?" Katherine asked quietly.

"You could have learned to love him." Madame Aiton sniffed. "A husband would be good for you. You are far too untamed. You run about like an urchin. No sense of propriety-"

"Love his money and his station, you mean," Katherine countered. "And it's a little late to try and tame me, don't you think? Having spent most of my life as an urchin, It's not hard to see where that untamed streak comes from. I remember a time when you encouraged that streak."

"That was a long time ago." Her mother said coldly.'

_-x-_

The phantom raged. Fury towards his own weaknesses, fury towards his mistakes, fury towards all manner of female existence, unleashed a thousand-fold on the unsuspecting organ as his fingers assaulted the keys furiously. Broken, jagged notes permeated the air, resonant discord bouncing off of stone walls, nearly visible, choking the air as Erik played. He reveled in this assault on his eardrums.

_I came to tell you Katherine's gone._

As if he hadn't noticed!

He slammed a gloved hand down on the keyboard, summoning a screeching cry from the organ pipes. He flew away from the seat, beginning to take on a furious pacing back and forth between the walls of his abode.

"I shouldn't be surprised," he hissed vehemently. "A low-class girl come into a fortune, taking her rightful place in high society." He sneered. "Learning to waltz with well-dressed fops, counting off silverware whilst dining with noblemen, sipping glasses of fine champagne while hired musicians screech Mozart through their violins."

He outright laughed. "Where will Cinderella run when the clock strikes midnight and the upper-crust realize she's just a pretty peasant?"

He collapsed back onto the organ bench, staring over the dark expanse of the lake.

"Farewell, farewell" he murmured. "Even Christine had the decency for parting words."

_-x-_

"I can't breathe," Katherine gasped quietly. "I can hardly move."

"Smile and look charming," her mother instructed, moving forward to greet their guests. "Wonderful to see you, Antoinette!" she trilled, clasping the severe looking woman's hands in her own. "It's been too long, really."

"Indeed it has, Elise." The smile that followed seemed to nearly split her face in two. "I trust you remember my daughter, Brigitte."

"How do you do," the girl curtseyed, blonde curls tumbling over her face.

"My son should be along shortly," Antoinette said. "I apologize for his tardiness. He had other matters to tend to."

"No trouble at all," Elise waved her hand. "I would like to introduce my daughter, Katherine."

Katherine tipped her head slightly. "I apologize. I would curtsey, as dictated by our societal norms, however, I find my lungs pressed a bit too tightly against my rib-cage today to even think of exerting even the smallest attempt at bending."

Antoinette and Brigitte were aghast.

"Please forgive my daughter's… crude behavior. She has spent a great majority of her life abroad with her father, who neglected to teach her proper manners,"

Katherine stared at her mother. Is that the excuse she had come up with to explain her sudden appearance? Living abroad with her father?

"Actually, I-" she began, intent to set the record straight.

"Well, why don't we all have a seat?" her mother interrupted. "Alice should be by with the tea soon."

Katherine, in no mood to argue (feeling that she perhaps didn't have the breath to do so,) took a seat across from Brigitte.

"I'm so terrible to hear about your father, Mademoiselle Aiton," Brigitte began kindly. "It must be dreadful to lose a parent."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Gaucher," Katherine said. "You're very kind."

"Katherine hasn't been coping well," Elise began as an aside to Antoinette. "She's insisting to remain in mourning. In this day and age!"

"The proper mourning period for father and _husband_ is a full year," Katherine interjected. "For someone who is so focused on what society expects, you're certainly very lax in terms of-"

"Forgive my daughter's rudeness," Elise said, casting Katherine a stern look. "Her father's death is an area of great tenderness."

Katherine turned her attention back to Brigitte.

Brigitte cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Are you fond of horses, Mademoiselle Aiton?" she asked finally.

"Why do you ask?" Katherine countered, puzzled.

"I've always had a fondness for them, myself. My uncle has a great many horses. He lives just outside of Paris."

"I see," Katherine said. "I'm not too familiar with horses."

"You've never been riding?"

"No."

Shock exploded across Brigitte's face. "Really?"

"I've read a few books about horses, but I've never had much opportunity to interact with them close up."

"Books about horses?" Brigitte wrinkled her nose. "Do you read often?"

"As often as possible."

"I'm rather fond of romances, myself."

It was Katherine's turn to wrinkle her nose. "I prefer histories. Sciences are good, too, and I have a special place in my heart for Greek epics."

"That's… ah… certainly interesting."

"I certainly think so," Katherine nearly snapped.

"Oh, Marcel!" Elise cried abruptly. "Do come sit!"

Katherine flicked her eyes towards the door.

"I apologize for my lateness," he said, straightening his cravat as he slipped into the room.

He was tall and blond, a larger, more masculine version of his sister.

"No trouble. Please do have a seat."

He strode forward, taking up a place next to his sister.

"I presume you're the Katherine that I've been hearing about?" he asked the girl across from him.

"Of course. Why bother waiting for an introduction?"

Katherine's mother paled visibly. "Now, Katherine, is that any way to-"

"A spirited woman!" he exclaimed. "I daresay, something must be done about that. Don't you have a husband to keep you in line?"

Katherine narrowed her eyes.

"Husband? She's practically a spinster!" Elise exclaimed exaggeratedly. "Twenty one years old and completely unattached!"

"Ah, well, that explains it then, doesn't it?"

"And what of you?" Katherine snapped. "You look to be well into your twenties and yet I don't see a band on your finger."

"Men don't need the same sort of guidance as young women do. You are all overly prone to negative traits and debauchery without a man to keep you in check."

The scoff that followed was anything but ladylike. "Monsieur," she began as she stood. "Had I more breath, I would certainly prepare a verbal assault that would uncurl your sister's pretty hair. However, as I find myself too tightly laced into this horrendous contraption no doubt invented by men to keep we of the female persuasion from becoming too diabolical through the sheer inability to inhale, I will simply bid you a good afternoon and hope that I've made enough of a scene to prevent your mother and sister, and therefore you, from ever returning to this house," she announced before marching out of the room, leaving her mortified mother babbling incoherent apologies as Antoinette and Brigitte stared, shocked, towards the door.

_-x-_

The knock on her door, although expected, was unwelcome.

"Katherine, open this door immediately," her mother's muffled voice shot through the wooden panels.

"Have you forgotten how to turn a knob?" Katherine snapped.

The door flew open.

"What were you thinking? That family thinks you're wrong in the head! Why must you go on like this? Where is your sense of propriety? Where is your head, girl?" Elise raged like Katherine had never seen her rage before.

"Maybe I should just leave." Katherine said quietly. "I cannot fit into your tidy ladies' mold. I can't think what you expect me to think. I can't not say what I think needs to be said. I cannot be anymore than I am. Perhaps it would be better if I went."

"Leave?" her mother cackled. "And go where? What do you have outside of this house? _Who_ do you have outside of this house? Your father is dead,"

Katherine hiccoughed.

"Your father is _dead_," she repeated. "And that little urchin friend of yours, has she come to call? Have you heard a single word?"

"I wrote to her…"

"Has she written back?"

"N-no but I expect she's just been…" Katherine couldn't finish. Belle had never been too busy for Katherine.

"Who else do you have out there?" her mother gestured wildly towards the window.

Katherine thought briefly of Erik. Of his reaction to her first unplanned absence. He probably hated her. Would probably kill her for setting foot in the cellars.

"No friends. No family. Nothing. I, we, _this_ is all you have left."

The door slammed behind her.

Katherine stumbled backwards and collapsed onto the edge of her bed. "Nothing," she murmured. Her fears had been reassured. "So very true.

This is all that I have."

* * *

**A/A/N: (Another Author's Note)** Raise your hand if you hate Katherine's family! *raises two hands* I can raise two hands because I wrote Belle. Okay, put your hand(s) down... that's right... onto the keyboard. Now write a review! If you would be so kind. :)

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth (me) and Kit. (Esareh) This one exclusively by Kit.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N:** THIS CHAPTER IS A LIE! Okay, not entirely. There IS a new chapter, but it's been uploaded as Chapter 21, where it belongs chronologically in the story. KIT IS BACK! *does a happy dance* "My apologies, monsieur" for the confusion, and (again) untimeliness and shortness of _this_ chapter, which is not new at all, but I think I edited like... a whole line in it. :P I have a more eventful and exciting piece coming up; one that's beyond mere filler and makes me chuckle deviously as I write it. Yes, I'm guilty of posting filler. I should be lynched by a tall dark and handsome. I will now accept my punishment.

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Another letter. Another tragedy. Raoul contemplated refusing the post from now on for the sake of self preservation. Philippe's lazy handwriting scrolled comfortably across the page with hardly a hesitation. He never dwelt long on how to word his messages, and the lack of concern showed clearly in the numerous blotches and afterthought curlicues he penned. If Raoul understood what he wanted from him that is all that mattered. Raoul imagined this letter would hold yet another plea to assist Philippe in his liaisons with a newly deflowered theatre girl. Most of them expected presents in return for their _favor_, and Raoul with his "feminine sensibilities" was asked for advice on which costly trifles would tempt them best. He didn't know why Philippe continued to pester him with such missives; Raoul always made it quite clear that he would have nothing to do with his brother's unscrupulous methods of entertainment. With a sudden jolt of memory, Raoul was reminded Christine was now his brother's wife, and he vowed more than a scathing reply if Philippe was stupid and unfeeling enough to continue in such pursuits while married to the sweet creature.

Apprehensively, he began to read.

_My dear brother,_

Something immediately felt amiss. Philippe did not use endearing terms unless undergoing a grave dilemma.

_A most unfortunate thing has occurred, which leaves me quite shattered. Christine's health—you know, I'd forgotten to tell you Christine and I had decided to go to England. Of course she must have written you herself so I saw no need to put pen to paper before. But now you'll have to prepare a guest room or two for your brother and his… _Christine_, for home life is not what it could be. The girl's not right in the head, but before you point your ridiculously moral finger at me, just try and see how difficult my situation is, brother! I ask you not to tell anyone of our arrival. I'd rather no one knows we're in Paris until things can be sorted out. If they can be. Have Janette air the mattress in the blue room; I'm rather fond of the drapes hanging there. And give Christine her own room. I don't know which of us is more upset to have to keep company with the other._

_Philippe_

Raoul wasted no time in composing a letter of his own.

_Received a letter from my brother. Concerns his wife's health._

_Please come today if you can._

**R.D.C**

The letter switched hands from Leprit to a servant girl in hardly any time at all. The girl took it to a fan seller who made sure that Belle had it in her own hands no later than thirty minutes after it was first sent on its way.

Raoul was not looking his best when Belle was let into the music room. His hands shook as he passed her the letter.

"What does this mean? Is Christine ill?"

"I hardly know. It's more than Philippe usually elaborates."

"So nothing more can be learned until they arrive?" He shook his head, not bothering to look up from his downcast gaze.

He looked very tired to Belle. She knew he was in deep thought and didn't want to disturb him further. Why had he sent for her? Did he need her to offer advice? If so, that was unfortunate, for she didn't know the first thing to say.

"Then we—you should… prepare for the worst as you hope for the best."

"I don't know who I want to kill more; Erik for bringing this on, or Philippe for worsening it. Could anything more happen? Are the fates now finished with their cruelties, or am I to expect more letters? One from the bank saying they've gone bankrupt, perhaps, or a letter from Napoleon condemning me as a traitor."

Belle knelt at the piano so he was forced to look at her. "Sometimes it seems like everyone I care for is either leaving me or being taken away. Papa's old sweet self, my loving Clare, Katherine… but thoughtless anger never helps. I could force my way inside Elise's home and knock down the maid, but what good would that do Katherine? Don't dwell on your revenge, but think on how you can be the greatest help to Christine. After she is cared for you can consider which rogue to duel. I'll even be your second if you need one."

Raoul had to smile. Picturing Belle in a pair of breeches with her hair tied back in a serious queue was too charming to resist.

"Would you care to sit on the couch rather than the piano bench? It's far more comfortable."

He seemed irritated. "Don't' speak to me as a servant. The least helpful thing you could do is go back to being vague and scattered Belle Durand."

"Very well. Remove yourself from the bench, sir."

When he was too slow to respond, Belle took his hand and pulled him gently to the chair. She bustled about the room, leafing through the music books with simpler piano pieces. She found one that Raoul was fond of; neither too sorrowful nor inappropriately cheerful and she had learned to play it moderately well.

When she had released the last note into the air, Raoul was no longer staring into a blank but watching her.

"Will you be here?"

She smiled sweetly. "I am here."

"Will you be here when Philippe and Christine arrive? No one else may know they're coming, and I don't think I can face them alone."

Belle nodded, closing the instrument's lid thoughtfully. After an uncertain moment of silence, Belle caught him staring at her fingers.

"Why are your hands so raw? Painting isn't that harsh of a mistress, is it?"

"I scrub them clean before I come here. I wouldn't like all those running colors near your piano."

"If I was your father, I wouldn't let you ruin your lovely hands so."

"My father!" her laugh was much louder than most ladies allowed theirs to be indoors. "I take offence at the implication, vicomte," a term she used only in playful derision. "You're barely old enough to grow whiskers."

"I had a mustache, once."

"Ha! I cannot picture you in one with all seriousness."

"It's a fashion, _cher ami_."

"A horrid one for you, I'm certain. I'm glad you rid yourself of it. Was your hand forced in the matter, or did you have enough sense to shave it yourself?"

"I decided against it once too many people mistook me for Philippe."

"Excellent decision. Otherwise you might have become the monster living underground, masked in shadow."

"Belle!" Raoul was quite nearly shocked, although struggling not to laugh.

"No, that was mean of me, I'm sorry. Erik doesn't look half that bad, I'm sure."

Before further retribution could be decided on by Raoul, Belle had taken on a more somber countenance. Her hands lay folded in her lap, a new habit formed by attempts to look more ladylike. It was difficult to keep artists hands without occupation, and if she hadn't learned to keep them together they'd be fiddling with a lose thread or tracing some nearby pattern in her absent-mindedness.

"I heard some women talking in the park about Christine. Most of the time they prattle only nonsense, but the way they spoke made it sound as if Christine was still extremely frightened. One of them has a relative who's a coachman. He saw your brother with Christine, and his report wasn't promising. Do you think…? Raoul, I don't want to alarm you needlessly, but could Christine have gone mad?"

"I don't know. I can hardly think of it."

Belle was not happy with the disconsolate way he held his hand over his face and took it upon herself to distract him. "If nothing can be done at the moment, we should think on other things. Shall I play something else?"

"No, thank you, but I've no desire for music at present."

There was no change in his demeanor for much too long a time. "You must want to be alone," she made ready to leave the couch. "I'll be sure to come when the Count and his wife…"

"How is Katherine? You see, I'll make an effort to be good company. Just don't go so soon."

Belle smiled faintly, settling back into her seat. She had only one letter from her friend since her removal from Belle's company. It was short, and not much like Katherine's wit, but she was happy to receive as much as that. "She says she is well, but that only means she's healthy. I'm sure she's tired of her relatives forcing her into a demure young lady of refinement."

"She isn't pleased with her new situation?"

"I wouldn't imagine so. Katherine is used to having her independence. She doesn't take kindly to people telling her what to do."

"Does anyone take kindly to being told what to do?"

"I think some people might."

"You?"

"More than Katherine, certainly. Often, I'd rather be led where she'd rather be left to make her own decisions. I value security more than independence. I shouldn't mind at all being made into a lady."

"You are one, Belle. They aren't teaching Katherine how to be a lady, but what to think, how to act, and whose company she should enjoy or reject. Even you wouldn't stand for that."

"No, I wouldn't. Although I'd put up with relatives too happy to impose on my will rather than be left alone. I don't like to be alone."

"Neither do I."

Returning home was more of a chore than customary for Belle. The closer the conversation steered to Christine, the more depressed Raoul would become and the more reluctant Belle was to withdraw. Suggesting the lateness of each passing hour only caused a new diversion from the victome as he not so cunningly hinted his reluctance at being left. Her own desire to stay leisurely in the well-set music room did nothing to compel her promptness.

Once walled away in the solitude of her own bedroom, Belle could ask herself all the questions she could not prompt Raoul to answer. She still had no solutions by the end of her reflections, but she had produced another modest landscape that showed promise of making some profit. Halfway through, there was a slight interruption as the door opened for the shortest moment and then closed quietly again. Marie sometimes worried for her girl's loneliness since Katherine had gone and wondered if teaching her the habits of a lady isolated her from the street vendors and shop keepers' daughters who otherwise could have been her companions. But with the victome so frequently asking for her company, the possession of a fine brush, and memories of her sister, Marie knew that Belle would never truly be alone.

* * *

**A/A/N: (Another Author's Note)** My goodness, I forgot how sentimental I made these two! Ah well. it's always easier writing fluff. Raouly puff fluff. Heh.

Phantom of the Opera and the characters therein belong to Gaston Leroux.  
The musical film version and general foundation for this phanfic belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
Phanfic co-written by Beth (me) and Kit. (Esareh)


	23. Chapter 23

**My dear readers:** First off, I want to thank you for staying with us this long! You've either had to wait YEARS for a new update, or you had to suffer through the horrendous drivel spewed out by my fifteen year old self (which I will be fixing soon!) I love you all! If I ever slack like this again, please don't hesitate to sneak into my house and crash my ceiling fan. That'll probably prompt me to update, which will make Beth feel like a slacker, and then SHE'LL update. Yeah. Or you can email me. My username is **Esareh** and my email address is on my profile. :)  
~Kit

* * *

**Chapter 23**

Katherine walked solemnly through the wood-framed double doors that lead to the dining room.

"You're late," her grandmother noted.

"My apologies," Katherine inclined her head slightly, mechanically falling into a shallow curtsey. She turned her attention to her mother. "I also wish to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I can only imagine how much I must have embarrassed you and our family."

Elise's eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

"I intend to send a letter to Monsieur Gaucher to impress upon him my deepest and most heartfelt apologies for subjecting him to such a wild and improper scene."

"Why… I certainly… I would think that he… should certainly appreciate it." Elise sputtered. "Sit, please."

"Forgive me, but I don't find myself hungry. I came only to offer my apologies. May I please be excused?"

"Of… of course,"

"Thank you," she curtseyed again and scurried away, leaving her mother and grandmother both entirely astonished and completely thrilled.

_No friends. No family. Nothing. I, we, _this_ is all you have left._

Katherine pushed the words to the back of her mind as she retreated to her room, broken-hearted and nearly crushed under the weight of the absolute and total aloneness that pressed down on her from every direction.

_Is this what Erik feels?_ She caught herself wondering. _No, best not to think of him._ She chastised. _Best to think forward rather than backward. I will be the lady that my mother wants me to be. I will make a life out of this. _She resolved before settling down at her writing table to pen an earnest outpouring of regret she did not feel.

Katherine was no great letter writer.

She penned a single line before balling up the paper and tossing away.

"I'm no good with things like this," she grumbled, taking a fresh sheet from the drawer and laying it flat on the table. "Once more, then,"

She wrote slowly and carefully, embellishing her words with careful swirls and flourishes. Each apologetic word she penned broke something inside of her, a small bit of her fiery spirit splintering off and falling into the dull, empty expanse of future that she saw spread out before her. Dull, polite conversations with high-born ladies and closed, empty-minded gentlemen. Tea parties in the garden with her mother's friends. Needlepoint pillows. Embroidering scarves. Social trips to the opera. Talking through the show, reclining on velvet seats in the high boxes, drinking fine wine and ignoring the view. Awkward courtships. Being auctioned off to the highest bidder. Trips to the opera. The opera.

Katherine stared at the creamy white paper, at the word inked heavily in place of her last apologetic declaration.

_Erik._

_-x-_

"Madmoiselle," a footman appeared in the parlor's doorway. "There is a Monsieur Gaucher here to see you."

Katherine looked up from her needlework, decidedly crooked pink flowers set into the most hideous shade of yellow wool she had ever seen, surprised and completely put-out. The last thing she'd expected after sending him the letter two days previously was for him to actually call on her. She'd hoped the letter would be the end of him.

"Please, Félix," she said, setting her work aside. "Show him in."

She stood when he entered, noting the smug look plastered across his face.

"What a surprise," she said.

"I received your letter," he said by way of explanation, taking a seat across from where she stood. "I knew you'd come 'round. Women always do. Speaking rashly and then taking everything back."

Katherine bit the inside of her cheek before responding. "I am very happy that you came, so that I may offer my apologies in person. I find letter-writing to be very cold and impersonal. An inadequate means to impress upon you my absolute and heartfelt-"

"Please, spare me the rest of your incessant feminine chatter," he interrupted. "And sit down."

Katherine swallowed hard, clamping her teeth hard together as she did so, smoothing down the black skirt of her mourning gown as she sat.

"I've several bits of good news for you," he announced. "Firstly, I'd like to inform you that I accept your apology. Your behavior is understandable, considering the guiding influence of the only man in your life has gone. You must be devastated. "

Katherine dipped her head. "Thank you, Monsieur. It means very much to me that-"

"I hadn't finished talking yet," Marcel began sharply. "And I quite think you'll be eager to hear what I have to say next," he leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other casually. "Taking into consideration your lack of necessary male guidance, your tolerable looks, and your obvious fortune, I have decided to court you."

Katherine rose to her feet quickly, nearly knocking over the small, padded chair as she did so. "Monsieur, I-"

"You are thrilled, I know," he supplied. "You are simply unable to bring words to mind that could adequately explain your silly emotions. No surprise, when one factors in inferior female intelligence." He tossed lock of golden hair out of his face.

"O-of course," she stammered. "Monsieur, please excuse me. I must process what has just happened. Félix will show you out."

"I see I've sent that simple mind of yours wheeling," he chuckled. "I shall perhaps call on you tomorrow when you've managed to calm yourself."

Katherine dipped into a brief curtsey before rushing from the room, nearly barreling into Félix as she did so. She rushed furiously through the halls, struggling to control her breathing and the wild, angry thoughts racing through her head.

_Cannot, will not, refuse, terrible, I cannot even, what do I, how can I, I will not, I cannot._

She flew up the stairs, nearly tripping over the hem of her gown.

Her mother's words echoed again in her thoughts. _This is all you have left._

She slowed her pace at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily, heart racing.

_Have to, cannot say no, no alternative, I am trapped._

Katherine paused in front of one of the small, decorative tables topped with a fine, decorative vase full of fresh flowers that peopled the hallway. Abruptly, she seized the vase and slammed it into the floor.

"Goodness!" her mother exclaimed, turning the corner hurriedly. "Katherine, are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm so clumsy," she said. "I waltzed right into the table! I was hardly paying any mind."

"As long as you're alright," her mother said. "It was only a vase,"

"I'm terribly sorry."

"No need to be sorry, dear," she trilled. "Accidents happen,"

"If you'll excuse me,"

"Of course,"

Katherine returned to her room and threw herself into the chair before her writing table, burying her face in her hands and leaning heavily on the desk.

She remained there until a servant called her for dinner, lost completely in thought.

She made her way to the diningroom rather reluctantly.

"Good evening Mother, Grandmother," she greeted dully as she took her seat at the table.

"Good evening, dear," her mother responded pleasantly.

"I do say," her grandmother began. "Your sudden turn of behavior is quite surprising. I'm frightfully glad to see that you've come 'round." She grinned in satisfaction.

Katherine winced at the phrasing. "I've been so torn up over… I simply don't know what came over me. I apologize for any inconvenience I've caused," she said mechanically.

"I understand, dear. When your grandfather died, your mother and I were absolutely inconsolable. I'm only sorry you never met him. He was a wonderful man."

Katherine, remembering the letter he had sent her eleven-year-old self, had a somewhat different impression.

"Ah, Katherine," her mother began. "Félix mentioned that Marcel paid a call to you today,"

Katherine paled visibly.

"What did he want? I assume he took your letter in favorable light?"

"He came to tell me that he wishes to court me," Katherine said without emotion.

The response was instantaneous. "Katherine! That's wonderful! You must be so thrilled!"

"Quite," she responded, knowing it's what her mother would want to hear.

"This is… this is the greatest news I could have expected to hear! We must… we must celebrate! Tomorrow, we shall go into town! You must have new gowns! No more of these drab, black mourning things. You must be radiant! What if he should propose? Oh, Katherine! I am beyond happy for you!"

"Yes," Katherine replied. "This is indeed a happy time."

_-x-_

Erik was restless. Although he had sworn to put her completely from his mind, he could not help but to think of Katherine.

He had heard nothing about her since her idiot friend had wandered into one of his traps weeks ago, and he had been unable to gain any information on her using his usual methods. He was understandably frustrated, unused to being so clueless in regards to anything he thought was any of his business.

Not that he thought Katherine was any of his business.

She had left him.

Erik paced furiously back and forth, feeling more and more like a caged animal with every step he took. The growl he released into the dark, releasing a cry of frustration so beastly that he might as well have been.

Storming to the rack in the corner, he grabbed his cloak and pushed into the passageway that would take him to the hidden exit onto Rue Scribe.

_-x-_

Erik was surprised to find himself walking in the general direction of Belle's shabby residence. He hadn't meant to go there, hadn't meant to go anywhere, really, but had soon found himself in the unmistakable (even in the dark of the night) lower-middle class neighborhood on the outskirts of Paris where Belle and her family resided.

He stopped momentarily, shaking his head slightly and turning around. Before he could even wonder why or how he had ended up there, he collided head-on with someone scurrying quickly in the opposite direction.

The someone yelped, surprised. "Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry! I wasn't-"

"You."

Belle yelped again. "Erik! You are the last person I expected to… what are you doing here?"

"In truth, Mademoiselle Durand, I haven't the slightest idea."

"I told you, it's Belle. And what you do you mean, haven't the slightest idea?"

Erik scowled in displeasure at the girl's questioning. "Am I not free to wander Paris as I please?" he snapped.

Belle instinctively took a step back. "Forgive me."

Erik sighed. "It is late, Mademoiselle. Why are you still about? You should be safe at home and take care. Only dangerous men come out at night."

Belle tried, and failed, to hide her irritation at being given that sort of advice from a dangerous man, particularly after being snapped at for questioning him about his own night time lurking.

"I have a _friend _that I visit and help with her baby sometimes. People judge her because of her condition in life so she asks me to come late. She doesn't like me walking alone, but Mama can't be persuaded to go with me."

"I see," Erik said cooly, crossing his arms casually. "I trust Katherine is well?"

Belle's face fell. "I wouldn't know. I heard from her only once, quite soon after she departed but… I haven't… I write to her every day, you know, but… but she hasn't answered."

Erik made a noise in the back of his throat. "And you, Mademoiselle? You are well?"

"Well I… I suppose I must be, mustn't I?" Belle questioned. "And you, Monsieur?"

"Me?" Erik echoed, startled.

Belle clasped her hands together and looked down. "What with Katherine being gone and Christine on her way back I thought maybe-"

Erik's demeanor changed in an instant. He straightened and uncrossed his arms, the exposed portion of his face melting into a snarl.

"What did you say?" he hissed dangerously. "What did you say?"

Belle took several more steps backwards, visibly frightened. She cast her eyes downward again, hesitant to meet those glowing yellow-green orbs that seemed to be burning holes straight through her.

"I… ah… I assumed you knew that… that Christine had…" she started, but when she looked up, he had already gone.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N:** Well, this has been written for an absurdly long time. I have no idea what I was waiting to post it for. I think I forgot it was there. *hangs head in Christine-like shame*

To all of you still enjoying this story, a thousand thank you's and a thousand pardons for being such a dreadful updater! I usually have a lot of bad things to say about my own writing here, but we did start this fic something like five years ago, and since we've had nothing but encouraging feedback, I really must thank you all again. I hope for your sakes we can finish this thing before another five years pass! :)

_~Beth/Honey Jenkins_

* * *

**Chapter 24**

They stood by the back door; two figures of nervous impatience. Belle stayed put as a fixture of the background, no more apparent than a piece of tarnished furnishing—or so she hoped. Raoul had insisted she stand nearer him, but already feeling like an imposter to a most private family gathering, Belle had staunchly refused.

She had her own reasons to be fearful of this meeting. All she knew of Christine was by hearsay, in character through opera, and of course that terrible night beneath the _Populaire_. She was not at all sure of how she felt—or how she wanted to feel about Christine. Could she feel compassion for the woman who abandoned Raoul? Would she be wretched if she could not summon even a little pity? All the questions she put to herself mixed up inside her gut and heightened her nervousness.

Belle jumped at the knock and didn't dare move a muscle as Raoul admitted a hurried form in dull colored clothing. Dusk was falling. The man was a perfect representation of the failing light and sameness of color outside. Philippe had been so concerned at the prospect of being sighted and recognized that he insisted in coming partially disguised. He entered the house alone, setting a few trunks down in the middle of their group.

"Where is she?"

Philippe answered somewhere from within the many trappings he wore. "She wouldn't come inside. I thought I'd bring our things in first. The rest of it will come in a day or so." He stepped back out in order to 'fetch Christine.'

The murmur of voices just outside reached the ears of those within the house, though not as discernable words. Philippe's impatience was apparent in the brisk manner of his coaxing, and a fainter objection answered him in a voice so fragile it was on the verge of breaking into sobs. Christine continued in a soft, questioning tone until a word from Philippe had her quiet.

The small-voiced woman stepped into the house as if entering a place forbidden. Her shoes made even less noise than her voice and the faint rustle of her gown. With the fur-lined cape and veil hiding most of Christine from view, Belle was denied a proper glance. Not even her hands were visible as she had them covered up in a muff that matched her cape.

The only notice Philippe took of Belle was when he ordered her to move Christine's things upstairs. Raoul was about to object, but Belle shook her head firmly at him.

Philippe glanced back at Belle very briefly, as if appraising her and quickly deciding she wasn't worth the inspection. "Where's Janette, that pretty piece of work?"

"Janette left my employ months ago."

"In God's name, why?"

Raoul gave no answer, but the displeasure in his face spoke for him. Philippe smirked and shrugged his shoulders. "Guess she wasn't proper enough for you. Didn't care for her ample…" Philippe grinned devilishly at Raoul's warning glare, "…red curls, now did you? She couldn't tuck them neatly enough under her cap? No matter. Did you send her to a convent where she could learn to keep them covered? No?" He shrugged again. "She could have put her talents to much better use elsewhere, I suppose."

Belle judged that the situation was only taking its toll on Philippe so much as he was more inclined to make Raoul's life misery. Raoul hardly paid him any heed. His attentions were fixed on the silent woman whose muff was showing signs of great movement underneath.

Raoul took a cautious step nearer to her. "Christine?"

Her head jerked up, allowing her blanched face to show under the small brown veil. Her eyes were wide and enhanced by bruise-like crescents beneath them. At the sight of Raoul, she shrank back. He reached a hand towards her and she said quite firmly, though barely above whisper. "Don't touch me. He'll see. He'll find us. We're not safe here. We were never safe." Then, weeping, she sank down to the floor in a mass of rumpled material. The weeping became wailing and soon she was bashing her head against the banister violently enough to draw blood had she not been restrained.

In great distress, Raoul stooped to help but it only worsened her condition. Philippe rather roughly pulled her up by the arms and began leading her up the staircase. When it became apparent they wouldn't reach the rooms until well past midnight at her sorry pace, he hoisted her into his arms with an intolerant sigh. Christine clung to his neck and still sobbing, demanded, "We are married, aren't we? You are my husband?"

"Yes, of course," he said sharply, as one who is made to continually repeat something to a naughty child. Despite his unkind manner, Christine seemed comforted by his answer and leaned into him a little.

Belle commissioned Raoul to gather water and rags for Christine's injury and she followed the tragic couple upstairs.

Philippe had deposited Christine in one of the many guest rooms; furthest, Belle noted, from the room he'd asked Raoul to prepare for his own use. She was not in the midst of a fit anymore, but rather shook from head to toe. Belle stepped into the room. Philippe took up the basin of water and the towels from his brother, but seemed to do so more out of what he thought was expected than any real concern for his wife. He removed the small hat and veil, leaving Christine's wounded forehead open to view.

"If you're done gawking, you and the servant girl can leave." The pressure he was applying to Christine's head seemed a bit more than necessary, and Belle winced when Christine in martyr-like silence merely twitched.

"Should you like me to do that, monsieur?" She spoke formally, desiring no reason to cause Philippe to question her place.

He responded with an irritated wave of the hand. Belle quickly exited, urging Raoul with a look to follow her.

Once outside the guest chamber, Belle hovered awkwardly outside while Raoul dragged a chair out from an adjoining room. He placed it near the door and when Belle refused to take the seat, he did instead.

A few moments passed in a foreboding silence. A shrill cry startled Belle. She looked to Raoul, but he stayed where he was and groaned with his head buried in his hands. Frightened for Christine, Belle hastened forward. Raoul stopped her with a firm grip on her wrist.

"If no one else will help her, I will," she cried.

Raoul would not relent. "It's not for lack of feeling or compassion I don't go to her. She is Philippe's _wife_." His tone made her pause and consider. "As much as I hate the fact, it remains so. I… I fear being close to her. I might take her up in my arms and frighten her even further for the most selfish reasons on earth." His voice grew urgent and hoarse, "We will never be as we were. She sleeps under my roof, but the distance is insurmountable. She could not bear it—_I_ could not bear to be the cause of more distress. It's best for me to stay away." He stared intently into Belle's worried eyes, releasing her wrist with a sigh. "But the trouble is, I do not trust Philippe."

"So I will go. _Let_ me go."

"Belle, I… do not want you to be hurt, either."

"She doesn't know me; she won't be upset. I can't leave her to his clumsy doctoring. Please, if I feel there's any risk, I'll let her alone."

He stepped out of the way then, shutting his eyes to the terrible sounds of Christine's wailing. Philippe had reached the end of his patience and was shouting at his wife who was once more crumpled on the floor, the back of her gown unbuttoned and a portion of her creamy flesh peeking out from the fallen shoulder of brown silk.

"If you refuse my help, I will cease to offer it then! I care not!" Huffing, he stumbled around Belle to prevent crashing into her in his blind aggravation. "Do what you will with her! I've done!"

The door slammed behind him with jarring force. Belle moved ever so slowly towards the pitiful young woman, taking care not to make any loud or sudden gestures. She knelt to the floor beside her and rested her hand atop the still-covered shoulder.

"Do you wish for help?"

Her assent was not offered verbally, but she turned to Belle with large, sad eyes and nodded.

As if dealing with a kicked dog, Belle helped her off the floor and began to complete the hurried job Philippe had begun. When she found it necessary to leave Christine for a moment to retrieve the abandoned luggage for a nightgown, she was met with whimpered protests. "No, please! Don't leave!"

"I'll come straight back, I promise!" Belle soothed, wrapping a sheet around her corseted frame so as not to leave her completely indecent. She returned with the bags and per Christine's direction, found the proper nightclothes.

Though she tried to be subtle, Belle could not help but pass her eyes over Christine's arms and bare legs before dressing her in order to ascertain what Philippe's treatment of his wife might truly be like. There were no marks to indicate that he was violent with her, and if Philippe hurt Christine, it was not by a physical manifestation of harm. She took the gown and slipped the soft material over Christine's full head of curls, then deftly tied the delicate white bow on the front.

"You are very kind" Christine breathed, "I have not had help getting dressed since…" she could not seem to recall. "So very long ago."

"Phil—your maids don't assist you?"

"My husband's maids do not care for me, nor I for them. You are very good, but your hands are so rough."

Belle drew her hands away and held them down to sneak a glance at them. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry," she echoed sincerely.

"Why are you sorry?"

"What?" Christine seemed shaken out of a reverie. "Thank you for helping me, only… your hands are rough."

Belle took a silver brush from a satchel Christine had in one of her bags. "Shall I brush your hair?"

She nodded and with a tilt of her head declared, "It is very difficult, I think, to be a spider."

"A spider, Christine?"

"Yes. No one likes a spider. They tend not to hurt you so long as they have no provocation. Still, we squash them."

Then Belle noticed the little creature that had positioned itself in the shadow of the vanity leg. She had not seen it before. Yet, she had a strong feeling that Christine was not alluding to the spider in the strictest sense.

She removed the pins that kept Christine's hair in her womanly chignon and brushed her long, twisting curls out. It was a difficult task, but not in the least unpleasant. It reminded her of the days when she would do the same for Claire. How she should have appreciated those simple things more.

Christine was quit pacified with Belle's gentle treatment of her. She soon was tucked into bed with no sign of agitation, even when Belle stole softly back out. Christine blinked at her as if studying Belle's silhouette in the doorway and murmured "goodnight."

Raoul hadn't moved. His head still lay clutched between his two hands and Belle was distraught to see him so. As she moved by him, once the door had been softly clicked shut, he grasped her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "Thank God you're here, Belle." She pulled her hand away, but not unkindly or with any great joy in the gesture. "The room is quiet now. Is she resting?"

"I've dressed her for bed and for now she is settled."

"How did this come about?" he asked no one. "How did we go from the most devoted of lovers to utter strangers? And Christine… she's gone from opera diva, fiancée of a victome, to the mad wife of his brother. I'm at a loss to understand it."

Philippe's voice came unexpected from several yards down the hall.

"She is not my wife."


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: **Sooo... I've been holding this chapter hostage. Sometimes I forget this story exists, and then it reminds me of itself in strange ways. Or Kit, (Username: **Esareh**) the authoress of this chapter, says something like, "Hey, so how's WNC comin'?" and I'll be like, "Ooooh, that's a thing! Riiight! I should update it!"

Would it do any good to apologise? I think that's all I do in these author's notes, now. I'm sorry, guys! Now that I've posted this, I _have_ to work on the next part! (Now you know why I was holding it hostage. :P)

I'm going to keep thanking you guys for sticking with this story. You all are unbelievably kind!

-_Beth/Honey Jenkins_

* * *

**Chapter 25 **

"Ah!"

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle, but if you would please stop squirming, you would not get stuck!" the middle-aged woman tutted through a mouthful of pins as she pinched the lose teal-blue fabric around Katherine's waist.

"That color is most becoming on you, Darling," Katherine's mother cooed.

"Indeed," Katherine murmured quietly, not entirely comfortable, after only a month in mourning, to be swathed in such a vibrant color.

She was also painfully aware of the cost of such a garment. Despite her newfound grand wealth, she was still more inclined to be frugal.

"I must say, though, the yellow is still my favorite," her mother continued. "Although the green one is quite lovely, too. It should certainly look quite fetching with any of the hats we purchased down the street."

Katherine winced. "Mother, I beg you, do not remind me of the great expense this shopping trip has incurred."

Her mother scoffed. "Great expense? Five gowns, three hats, and four pairs of gloves are hardly a great expense."

Katherine did not imagine that her mother would understand any further argument. Clearly the years spent in relative poverty with Katherine's father had failed to leave an impression.

"Besides, you _must_ leave a grand impression on Monsieur Gaucher!"

Katherine started violently, causing the seamstress to jab a pin in between the bones of her corset and straight into her side. She drew in a great deal of air very quickly through her teeth, nearly hissing, as she bit back a nasty swear.

"Mademoiselle, I am very sorry!" the woman exclaimed. "I-"

"No, no, Madame," Katherine waved a hand. "The fault is mine."

She was truthfully thankful for the sharp, surprising pain of the pinhead. It had served as a momentarily distraction from the unpleasant feeling that had bubbled up inside of her at the mention of one Marcel Gaucher.

"There, finished!" the seamstress announced, straightening and beginning to undo the multitude of buttons that trailed down Katherine's back. The fabric slid from her shoulders and pooled around her feet. Katherine stepped over the puddle of finery, wondering, fleetingly, how many oddities she would have had to sell in her father's shop to afford such a thing.

"No more than two days," the seamstress assured her mother as she helped Katherine back into her black gown. "I've very little alteration to do."

"So soon!" her mother exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "Wonderful! We must be sure Monsieur Gaucher doesn't see you until then."

Katherine thanked the seamstress as she bowed them out. Katherine's mother surveyed the street. "What a disgusting part of town," she sniffed. "I hadn't realized we'd taken a turn into the slums. There is something to be said for open carriages, I suppose. What is such a prominent shop doing here? Perhaps we should have taken our business elsewhere."

Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep quiet as she walked up to their carriage parked on the curbside. They were very near to Belle's home, and, despite the tangible silence that had arisen between the two friends in the past weeks, the thought of someone insulting her lifestyle still sent a pang of defense through her. "We must hurry, Mother," Katherine began quietly. "We promised Grandmother that we would return before dinner," she said as she pulled herself up and into the carriage.

"We shall surely be back before then, Katherine," her mother scoffed, waiting for the driver to scurry around and help her up into the cab. "No need to rush, although I certainly understand your wish to be gone from here."

The driver shut the carriage door behind her mother, and, after a moment, the carriage lurched forward.

"Why don't we throw back the shades?" her mother suggested. "Let in a bit of fresh air, and more light, too. In a few moments, of course, after I am certain we have left the slums."

Once Elise was assured that they had taken a turn away from the lower class, she pulled aside the fabric that covered the windows.

"Oh, now, isn't that a shame," she said as she looked through the glass. "The Populaire used to be the most beautiful building in Paris! Look at it now."

Katherine's heart missed a beat at her mother's words. Her head snapped away from her hands in her lap to the window.

"Beautiful," she echoed.

"I've heard such dreadful stories!" her mother continued. "I've heard that a monstrous man kidnapped a chorus girl and sent the chandelier crashing," she pressed her hand to her heart. "What madness!"

"I was there that night," Katherine said before she could stop herself. "I saw no monsters."

It struck her, then, how absolutely near she was to Erik. A few short yards away from the opera house. Perhaps half a mile down through the cellars. A twenty-minute journey at the most.

Her hand was on the door handle before she realized what she had done.

"Katherine, whatever are you doing?"

She let her hand fall away from the handle.

The setting sun dwindled in a pool of red, dyeing the garden path a deep burgundy as Katherine and her most despised suitor made their way down it. Katherine was doing her best to avoid conversation and contact of any sort.

"I know all about you,"

Katherine looked up.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean,"

Marcel clasped his hands behind his back. "I know that you didn't live abroad with your father. You were poor," he sneered.

Hope exploded in Katherine's chest. Maybe he would withdraw his courtship! She cast her eyes down and attempted to look distraught.

"Monsieur," she began. "I-"

"As unappealing as that bit of information is, your current station and wealth are all that matter to me."

"If that is the case, Monsieur," she said with false sweetness, pushing back the bubble of anger that replaced the joyful anticipation. "I can't help but wonder why you even brought it up in the first place."

Marcel narrowed his eyes. "Because I want you to know that I know. It's not your place to question me. The sooner you learn that, the better."

Katherine was quickly barreling towards the very edge of her patience. "Monsieur," she began somewhat too sharply. "I really don't think-"

"No, you don't, do you? You're only a woman, after all. You _shouldn't_ think."

She snapped. "You narrow-minded, arrogant, worthless bourgeoisie lordling brute. How dare you say these things to me? If your intention is to force me into despising you, I must insist that you not waste the effort, as I cannot imagine disliking you more than I do presently," she growled. "If you find yourself so underclassed by females, I wonder why you even waste your time on them. Certainly a man would suit you better!"

She spun on her heel and disappeared down the garden path and back into the mansion, not missing the shocked expression on her mother's face as she passed her.

_Well, _she thought as she flitted up the stairs. _I gave it a valiant try. _

_-x-_

Erik sat on the edge of his organ bench, nursing his hands. He knew he should probably bandage them, but he couldn't bring himself to even stand.

He had played through the score of _Don Juan _so many times, so furiously, that his nails has cracked and his fingertips were so raw that they had started to bleed.

Christine had returned to Paris!

How could he even breathe, knowing she was there, so close to him but married to someone else? How could he even imagine her belonging to someone else?

He buried his face in his hands, marring the creamy white leather of his mask with streaks of blood.

"Christine," he whispered. "Christine, Christine. My beautiful Christine."

He thought of her in the arms of the elder de Chagny, and his sorrow turned to rage. Blind, boiling rage that consumed him completely.

He stood, finally, his cramped muscles groaning in protest as he began to pace furiously across the room, dreaming up the most terrible tortures imaginable to inflict upon him. His mood lightened significantly as he imagined the satisfying snap of the foppish noble's neck underneath his gloved hands. A small smile played at his lips.

Oh, yes. He would kill that man, and he would enjoy it.

_ -x-_

"Katherine, open this door!"

Katherine ignored the knocking, and the squeal of her mother's voice, running a finger over the lip of the desk drawer. A bit of dust came off on her finger.

"Katherine, you should be grateful that Marcell still wishes to court you, after your little scene in the garden today," she continued. "He has assured me that he is just as steadfast in his desire to court you as he was before, which, I daresay, is fortunate! No one else would have you!" she snapped before the sharp click of her heels signaled her departure. Katherine scoffed and drew patterns in the rug with the toe of her slipper.

She knew she was acting dreadfully. She felt terribly like one of the ill-fated heroines in the novels written for young women to warn them of the consequences of poor obedience.

She didn't care one bit.

Katherine was discontent. Completely unhappy with her current situation, and now she felt trapped. She couldn't imagine Belle or Erik wanting anything to do with her and, truthfully, she had no one else. Any plans of making a great escape fell apart as she conceived them.

She dissolved into a miserable state. Her thoughts were now completely centered around the two people she had lost to her 'new life'.

She pounded a fist on the desktop. A tangle of thoughtless emotion bubbled over until she thought she would scream. She now felt more like the centerpiece of a gothic novel. Helpless and alone in a world too big for her, waiting to be rescued.

She resolved at that moment that she would _not_ be that woman. She would try, at least. Belle certainly wasn't cold-hearted enough to ignore a legitimate plea from a friend (if she was even still counted as such) who was in need.

If all else failed, she had her money.

Katherine pulled a sheet of paper from a compartment in her desk and began to write.


End file.
